by Dean, Rosie
I guessed The Orchid Room was for private parties. It was sumptuous, with a colour scheme of orchid pinks, greens and cream. I wondered whether I might be able to emulate it in my home. My next home, that is, when I finally got one.
‘Jennifer.’ There was no mistaking Duncan’s rich voice. He was dressed quite casually, compared with us; no tie, and he wore a faded blue linen jacket over indigo jeans.
But hot, as always.
He greeted us one by one. No formality, just hugs all round. Not quite a bro-hug for Owen, more a meaty hand-clasp with a side order of shoulder grip. Although I suspect Owen would have gone for the full embrace.
Behind Duncan I saw faces I didn’t recognise and a couple I did, namely Rusty and Evan.
Duncan introduced us. ‘This is my sister, Emily and her husband, Jim, and this is my nephew, Harry.’
Tom was kicking his legs against Beth in his excitement to see another boy who might actually take him seriously. Poor old Beth would have to be on her game for the rest of the evening to keep up with him. She lowered him to the floor and Harry immediately took up the role of responsible older child. ‘Hello, Tom. Let’s do some fun stuff.’
He took him by the hand and led him to a huge play-mat in the far corner, piled with cushions, building bricks and cuddly toys. It clashed horribly with The Orchid Room’s delicious palette but was a nice touch.
Once we were all fluted up with champagne, Duncan’s sister settled alongside me with her glass of orange juice. ‘I’m guessing you must be thrilled and a little bit anxious about tomorrow’s show.’
‘I am. I haven’t eaten a thing all day – well, apart from a couple of Werther’s Originals. It’s just beginning to sink in, really. I think I’m mostly excited.’ And, surprising though it may seem, I was. Just being there, and being fussed over in a fabulous hotel had nudged my terror out of the way. This was really happening. All our efforts and plans were about to be realised. If I didn’t stop to enjoy it, I’d be kicking myself, one day.
‘Well, I hope you can eat tonight, because the chef here is fantastic.’
‘Right now, I’m ravenous.’
‘Do you mind if we sit down,’ she asked, stroking her bump and heading to the huge circular table in the centre of the room.
‘When’s it due?’
‘She’ll be here in six weeks – all being well.’
‘It’s a girl? Do you have a name?’
‘Yes, but we’re not saying yet. Harry’s determined she’ll be called Pocahontas.’
‘I can see how that might work.’ We both laughed. ‘He’s looking forward to her arrival, then?’
‘Yes. He wants to be like Duncan in every way possible. He knows I’ve always looked up to my big brother, so I think he’s hoping for slavish adoration from this little one.’
‘That’s so sweet.’
‘Aye, he’s a good boy.’
‘You singing my praises there, Em?’ Duncan was standing behind us.
‘Would I dare do anything else?’
He grinned. ‘Now, I think everyone’s ready to eat. Would you all like to take your places at the table?’
There was a high chair opposite me, so Beth lifted a reluctant Tom from the play-mat and carried him over. Harry insisted on sitting next to Tom, so the little chap was pacified.
William handed out menus and we all crooned over the tempting options.
‘What a treat,’ I muttered. ‘Do I go for the scallops or the minted pea risotto?’
‘I’m off fish,’ said Emily, ‘so if I have the risotto, you can try mine.’
‘It’s a deal,’ I said, smiling back at her.
For main course, I really wanted Lobster Thermidore but knew it would be one of the most expensive items on the menu and I didn’t want to appear greedy. But when Duncan recommended it as the chef’s signature dish, I couldn’t resist.
Mum smiled across the table at me. ‘Lobster Thermidore – fit for a princess, as Grandee used to say.’
Duncan, who was sitting between Mum and Beth, across the table said, ‘What’s with the princess story?’
‘It’s just a kid thing.’
Emily smiled at me. ‘Did you have a sparkly frock and a tiara?’
Beth chipped in. ‘Wore it all the time. Mum had to make a bigger dress when she grew out of the first one.’
‘I was six. Every little girl wants to be a princess at six.’
‘I wanted to be a mermaid,’ said Emily.
‘She made a very good princess,’ Beth continued. ‘Very regal.’ She blew me a kiss.
‘Thank you. Now can we move on?’
I refocused on the menu, but not before spotting the smile on Duncan’s face.
Emily was right. The chef was a marvel. ‘Wow! This is seafood heaven.’
‘Marcel is great with fish and seafood. I can’t wait till Flossie here arrives, then I’ll be hoovering up the fish dishes.’
We launched into a discussion on foods she could and couldn’t face while pregnant, which led onto foods we’d experienced in different countries and discovered our mutual passion for tabouleh.
‘Love it!’ she said. ‘When I’m back from the delivery suite, we must get together and make some; tabouleh and falafel.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ We chinked glasses.
‘Duncan tells me you were working on a community project in Costa Rica. How was that?’
‘Tough but rewarding.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Well, professional counsellors ran the programme – for victims of domestic violence – but the therapy was based around drama, music, dance and art. Sometimes we were just helping children work through things they’d witnessed and sometimes we’d get them to act out metaphorical scenes, which echoed their experiences. We also produced short plays, and we worked on self-esteem.’
‘Just with children?’
‘No. Women too, rebuilding their confidence or showing them how to be assertive and set boundaries. It’s something I want to build on at the theatre, when it’s back on its feet.’
‘Good for you – and worthwhile, I imagine.’
‘I hope so. Sadly, you never know if they’re going to go back to being oppressed or abused. You just have to hope that something they learned at the centre keeps them going in the future…builds their strength. Nobody should have their spirit crushed.’ I could feel a little heat in my cheeks, as I recognised I was talking about myself, as much as anyone else.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said.
Duncan and Mum were getting on like a house on fire. I was relieved not to be sitting next to him but – contrary little mare that I am – felt a smidgeon miffed too.
The table was so large I couldn’t hear their muted conversation, just the occasional guffaw of laughter. One had to project to be heard across three metres of polished cream marble and the central tableau of lilies and orchids. I wished I knew what they were talking about.
As coffee was served, I realised just how tired I was feeling. I opted for decaff. No point pumping more adrenalin round my system. And it was only nine o’clock.
Emily beat me to it, excusing herself and giving Harry the nod. Harry gave the time-honoured argument about not being ready for bed yet until Beth joined in and lifted Tom from his high chair. ‘Right, busy day tomorrow,’ she said, ‘time for bed, boys.’
I was just about to make my excuses and leave, when Duncan suggested I move around the table and sit in Beth’s vacant chair.
It would have been churlish not to. Or so I told myself.
‘How’re you doing, Princess?’ he asked, as I sat down. He had that wicked twinkle in his eye.
I just responded with a smile. Princesses are very frugal with their conversation; especially after a week like mine.
‘Ready for tomorrow?’
‘I think so,’ I said through a suppressed yawned.
‘Looks like bed’s calling you too, Chloe.’
I might have been knackered but
the word ‘bed’ from Duncan’s mouth, in such close proximity, was triggering a multitude of neurons to zap signals through my nervous system. Up and at him! they were saying.
‘Yes, it is. But I’ve had a wonderful meal, and it’s been a lovely start to the event. Thank you.’
‘Absolutely my pleasure. You’ve put a lot of hours in over the last few weeks. You might want to take a little break before we start work on the Challenge. You could stay on here for a few days. There’s a fabulous pool at the top of the building. I can give you a free pass to the spa – any treatments you fancy.’
Those neurons were going frantic.
‘Have you mentioned it to Mum?’
What?! Why did I say that?
Mum, who’d clearly been ear-wigging, said, ‘Yes, he did but I’ve got too much to do at home. And then there’s Kandy.’ Both lame excuses. ‘You can stay if you want to?’
I could tell she wasn’t certain if I was up for it, but I knew she hoped I was. She had secret plans for me and Duncan, of that I was sure. I had a few plans of my own but had the sense to recognise they were only pipe dreams.
‘Can I think about it?’
‘Sure.’
The following afternoon, the theatre was buzzing with activity; technicians were scaling rigs, artistes and managers were comparing schedules and there was a jangle of voices reverberating around the auditorium. With a clipboard firmly clutched in my hand, I was dealing with one query after another.
I kept hoping Duncan might pop in to see how rehearsals were going. Although, I reasoned, there was no basis for him to be as excited about all this as I was, but it would have been lovely to share some of it with him. He would be watching the show, though. He’d hired a couple of the boxes for the project team and their families.
I checked my watch, we would be raising the curtain in just three hours.
Backstage there was a wonderful atmosphere; old professionals mixed with new talent and Mum was in amongst all of them, swapping stories about Joshua – some of which were even new to Mum, and would no doubt be squirreled away into her repertoire to regale at future lunches.
Gemma barged along the corridor with a glossy pink tablet under her arm, which clashed slightly with her pink leather jacket. ‘Chloe!’ she beamed, coiling the other arm around my neck and pressing our cheeks together. ‘I’ve got something great to show you. Check this out – you’re going to love it!’
She presented the tablet to me, which displayed the proofs for a glossy double page magazine spread. There were beautiful pictures of Duncan and Alicia-May, outside the Royal Theatre, sitting in the auditorium and standing on the stage. They’d done the shoot after our visit to Wake-Up! TV. Gemma hadn’t included me in the line-up, which was a little galling, bearing in mind it was my family’s project. Instead, she’d arranged for me to pop into a London radio station for a chat on their afternoon show.
‘Alicia’s such a great person to deal with! Sooo natural and friendly. Is she here yet?’
‘Upstairs, dressing room number one.’
Gemma took the tablet from me. ‘Oh, and check out tonight’s Evening Standard!’ She flipped open a copy of the newspaper. There was a picture of Alicia-May, arm in arm with Duncan, outside one of London’s top restaurants. They made a stunning couple. The headline read, ‘Brought together by Joshua Steele – romance blossoms.’
I guessed that was exactly what Gemma had been angling for. There was so much more prestige for her main client – Duncan – to be linked with a Hollywood star.
The press were so fickle. Weeks ago it had been my turn. Obviously there was no truth in it. I mean, really? All the same, I found myself studying the look on his face – as if his inanimate image could explain.
‘Fantastic timing, don’t you think?’ Gemma asked, taking the paper back.
As Duncan had advised me: I smiled and said nothing.
She gave me a knowing look and headed off to find Alicia-May.
Jooli appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘Hi, babe!’ she crooned. ‘How’re you doing?’
We hugged. ‘Frazzled. You look fab.’
She muttered in my ear, ‘What about sexy Duncan, is he here?’
‘No.’
‘Keeping him on ice?’
‘Well, according to latest reports, Alicia-May is his woman of the moment.’
Jooli’s face registered surprise. ‘For real? He so had the hots for you at the race-track.’
‘That was just a contractual thing, as it turns out.’
‘Whatever you say, babe.’
I looked at my clipboard. ‘I say you have a rehearsal due in fifteen minutes.’
At twenty past seven, the loudspeaker in each dressing room crackled into life. ‘Beginners, this is your ten minute call!’
Backstage, Mum, Beth and I huddled together for a brief hug. We weren’t performing till the second half so Beth headed off to watch the show with Tom.
We couldn’t have asked for a better audience. The crowd from Barnworth filled the front few rows, and gallantly led the cheering from the moment the auditorium lights dimmed.
We opened with the Barnworth Brass Band marching through the auditorium, playing When the Saints Go Marching In, and ending up on stage to perform There’s No Business Like Show Business.
The mood was set and our compère, the lovely, the gorgeous, the uber-professional Morgan Ash was there to link the acts together. Out front, he held the show together while backstage, I was racing from changing rooms to wings, checking my acts were in the right place at the right time. Morgan was smooth and flexible; stretching his patter to fill any unforeseen gaps. His gravelly, Shakespearean delivery – along with a touch of innuendo and eye-sparkling charm – gave the show real class.
And thanks to his ‘close, romantic association’ with the Italian baritone, we’d managed to get Dante Russo to perform his latest single, before sprinting off stage and into a taxi to The Royal Albert Hall, where he had his own fee-paying audience to entertain.
The lovely Jooli was a knockout, performing two of her big hits and loudly pledging a thousand pounds to the theatre. God love her, she’d set a trend. No professional act dare go on afterwards without matching her offer.
So, those were the class acts. We also had a couple of reality TV ‘slebs’ gamely doing a dance of the seven veils to the theme tune from their show ‘Real Men Cook’, peeling off tea-towels to reveal RMC underpants in fluorescent jungle green.
At half time, my anxiety levels were sky-high. Chiefly because, when the lights went down and the curtain went up on the second act, we three Steeles would be facing the audience. ‘It’s not as bad as potholing,’ I murmured as we waited in the wings. ‘You’re among friends.’
Beth was checking her lipstick in a greasy little mirror on the wall, and trying out a few killer smiles. Mum was pulling her own mouth into every conceivable position and making odd noises. Both were oblivious to me and my raging angst.
Good. If they were on their game, then our performance would at least be two-thirds as good as our rehearsals had been.
With a nod from the stage manager, we took our places centre stage; Mum in the middle and we two either side.
When the lights went down, and the cheers went up, so did my stomach, followed rapidly by my pulse. I swallowed. I breathed. I thought of Grandee.
Mum held our hands and when the music started we bobbed up and down to the beat. The curtain went up and we were on. There was a preposterously huge cheer from the front rows when they saw us, decked out as we were in spotty dresses with circular skirts and our wing-framed sunglasses. We’d chosen to sing New Girl in Town from Hairspray because it was fun and jolly. Before my stage-smile lips could fuse to my teeth, we were singing. We were singing and bouncing, and I realised the warmth coming from the auditorium wasn’t just down to the spotlights.
Several bars in, as we three changed places in our routine, Mum winked at me and I felt a quiver in my cheek. It was a real smile twitchi
ng. Not the plastered on, muscle-aching, stage smile but one borne out of the deep joy of being there, doing what we did so well. And doing it together, for Grandee’s theatre.
We dipped, we swayed and Beth did the splits in mid-air. She’d insisted. It was her party-piece and who was I to spoil her fun?
As the song came all too quickly to an end, we bowed to the front, and we bowed to the sides. I squeezed Mum’s hand with pride and we took another bow before Morgan strode on, applauding vigorously. ‘Weren’t they fabulous, Ladies and Gentlemen? The Glorious Steele Girls.’
We dipped a little bow to him in appreciation and walked hand-in-hand back to the wings, where we fell into each others’ arms, whispering our joy at having pulled it off. Then it was back to the clipboard, back to my sprint between wings and dressing-rooms, rallying the other performers to their starting blocks.
The last solo act of the night had to be Alicia-May, and she did not disappoint. She performed just the one number, but it lasted a full five minutes. It was a roof-raising rendition of I Will Survive. Spectacular. She was so good, people would have gladly paid twice the ticket price just to see her. I was genuinely proud to know I’d shared the stage with her all those years ago, and that she was here because of Grandee. And we were friends, even with all those miles separating us, she cared and we cared.
As she came off stage, she pulled the widest smile and hugged me so hard, I thought I’d turn purple.
Next came the finale, when the entire company – or at least those who hadn’t headed for better venues or fancier parties – took to the stage for a rousing reprise of There’s no Business like Show Business. I was bursting with pride and relief. Thrilled at having survived the ordeal with honours, I beamed up at the box where I knew Duncan’s party was sitting. His words, his encouragement had brought me back to the stage with a renewed perspective. He was right. There were many worse things than getting up on stage and bringing entertainment to an enthusiastic audience. I hoped he could read the gratitude in my smile. More than that, I hoped he could see me, because I couldn’t see him in amongst the Thorsen Leisure crowd. Owen was holding Tom and cheering; Marlean and Emily were at the front with their sons who were clapping frantically.
