When the Curtain Falls

by Carrie Hope Fletcher

  Also by Carrie Hope Fletcher

  On the Other Side

  Winters’ Snow

  All That She Can See

  Non-fiction

  All I Know Now

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Sphere

  978-0-7515-7120-2

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Carrie Hope Fletcher

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  SPHERE

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  When the Curtain Falls

  Table of Contents

  Also by Carrie Hope Fletcher

  COPYRIGHT

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1: Enjoy

  2: Unlocking The Gate

  3: Coffee

  4: Life and Death

  5: One Week To Go

  6: Final Rehearsal

  7: Reawakening

  8: Right Place, Right Time

  9: Letters and Keys

  10: Fawn

  11: Opening Night

  12: For What It’s Worth

  13: Two Dozen Roses

  14: Oscar Believes

  15: Something Wicked This Way Comes

  16: Dying Embers

  17: An Idea

  18: Listen

  19: The Pearl

  20: The Curtain Call

  21: Finale

  Epilogue: Twelve Years Later

  Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated to all the ghosts

  haunting the UK’s theatres. May the actors

  of today do you proud.

  xxx

  Prologue

  A certain kind of magic is born when the curtain rises. Intoxicated by the smell of the greasepaint and powered by the glow of the footlights, lovers successfully elope, villains get their just deserts and people die in epic stunts and yet live to tell the tale. Thousands pay to sit and be fooled by illusions and still jump to their feet to applaud despite their gullibility. It’s an inexplicable, delicious, addictive power that keeps people entranced and coming back for more, again and again. However, for one theatre on one special night of the year, it’s when the curtain falls that a whole different kind of magic takes to the stage. Mice scurry through the gaps in the walls, mirror lights flicker in the small hours of the morning and ghosts roam the wings in search of props from productions long past. When the curtain falls in the Southern Cross Theatre, the lonely stage door man wanders the halls checking each door is firmly bolted. All, that is, except one. He turns the key of dressing room four and swings the door open to find the lights still on and a faint scent of jasmine in the air. A high-backed green velvet armchair faces the mirrors, hiding the woman in the reflection from view. The man doffs his cap to the red-headed lady and her green eyes sparkle at him.

  ‘You’re here,’ she says.

  ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ he says with a wry smile.

  ‘Never,’ says her reflection. ‘I’m always glad of the company. It’s rare one finds it these days. Come and sit with me a while, won’t you?’

  ‘Always.’ He walks to the green armchair and swivels it around, only to find it empty, just as it is every year, on this day, when he comes to dressing room four. He sits down and faces the mirror where he watches the woman pull her pink silk dressing gown tighter around her shoulders.

  ‘You look beautiful.’ He smiles, stroking his chin, trying to hide the wrinkles beneath his palm.

  ‘Stop hiding,’ she says, reaching out a hand. ‘I know what you look like and you know that I like it. Seeing you is such a rarity. I can’t bear it when you hide yourself away. It’s almost unfair.’ Her eyes glisten in the yellow light, and he is afraid her tears will spill over.

  ‘Sorry.’ He pulls his hands away and places them on the dressing table, his fingers splayed apart. ‘I know, I know.’ Every day of his life builds up to seeing her on this night each year and every year he feels like he lets her down. He’s grown older, his skin has wrinkled further, his hair has greyed and yet she’s stayed vibrant and sparkling, full of life and full of love for him.

  ‘Please don’t hide,’ she begs, her fingers pressing up against the glass.

  ‘I won’t ever hide from you. Never,’ he promises, pressing the tips of his fingers against hers, tricking himself into believing that he can feel the warmth of her skin.

  ‘It’s almost time.’ Her voice catches in her throat.

  ‘Already?’ He checks his watch. 11:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes.

  She nods sadly and stands, her limbs carrying her to the reflection of the door. Her body moves slowly, as if through treacle, every muscle fighting against a force she can’t control, a force that is carrying her away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobs, a tear trickling down his weathered cheek.

  ‘Don’t be. All I ask is that you come earlier next year. Just a few more minutes, that’s all I need.’

  ‘I hate letting you go,’ he whispers.

  ‘Our time gets so much shorter and shorter and…’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I feel like I’m losing you.’ She clutches the door frame, fighting the invisible tide that’s crashing against her and forcing her back.

  ‘You will never lose me. Not ever.’

  His gaze follows her reflection as she is pulled from the doorway. He gets to his feet and stumbles forward on his aching knees. Mirrors of all different shapes and sizes have been hung in an uneven line along the corridor walls. He catches a glimpse of her hair in one, the hem of her dressing gown in another and then her pleading eyes in the last one. Where he hasn’t been able to hang mirrors, he’s lined them up on the floor and propped them up against the walls so he can follow her stumbling legs. Some years she takes different routes through the corridors, past different dressing rooms and through different wings, desperately trying to cling to the theatre and the man she loved but ultimately, she is always pulled back to the same fateful place: centre stage. He chases her reflection, sometimes losing her and racing backwards, retracing his steps; it has become harder and harder every year as he struggles to keep up with her body elegantly bending and bowing away from him. It is a dance he had never learnt the right steps to and certainly one he never enjoys.

  She calls his name and her voice echoes through the corridor as he turns the corner to see her silver shoe stepping through the golden frame of a mirror and delicately touching the floor. Despite the solid click of her heel against the stone as she pushes her way out of the frame, he can see the end of the corridor through her body. She is transparent and hazy but her green eyes still dazzle him to his very soul and his lips tremble at the sight of her, now in costume, ready for the stage. The train of her burgundy evening gown sweeps along the floor behind her as she is pulled from him once more, her beautifully coiffed blonde-wigged head twisting reluctantly away. People often speak of ‘the magic of the theatre’ but they usually mean what happens on stage during a show. They don’t know about the real magic that lingers within the theatre walls, left behind by every actor who treads the boards. And they don’t know about the
magic that takes hold of her every year, whipping her old pink dressing gown into burgundy silk and spinning her red hair into gold. The old man hobbles after her but with less desperation than before. Now that she is in costume, nothing can stop her and all he can do is watch from the wings just as he has done every year before. She pulls open the double stage doors and a silence falls over the theatre. Mice stop their scurrying and lights cease their humming. His breath catches as he watches her delicately sidestep props and set pieces, even though were she to come into contact with anything, she would float right through. She turns to face the stage and slowly the warm glow of the lights fades up and he can see the outline of her lovely face. It’s all so achingly familiar – the way her cheeks flush at the thought of stepping out in front of an audience, the way she still touches the bridge of her nose even though she isn’t wearing her glasses and the way her eyes swim when she turns to him and whispers, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s me who couldn’t save you.’ He stumbles forwards, steadying himself against the black painted walls, but her smile stills him.

  ‘Oh, but you did, my love.’

  She takes a deep breath and makes her entrance onto the stage. He doesn’t want to watch but the force that had dragged her to this place now has a hold on him too. It gently pulls his body to the spot she had just left. He dodges the props with much less grace but eventually he is manoeuvred into the same position that he takes up every year. Her dress ripples around her young, curved frame and her transparent skin still glows in the light but quickly that light turns blue and cold and the floor becomes slick with a thin layer of dry ice.

  ‘You were never supposed to find out this way,’ she says, her voice sultry and low, no longer her own.

  ‘You didn’t do well to hide it,’ snarls a snide voice from the shadows. A figure steps into the blue light, tweed clad around his slight frame and smoke billowing from the cigar in his right hand. His thick, waxed moustache twitches against his powdered cheeks as his pale blue eyes drink in her beauty.

  ‘Leave her be, goddamn it.’ Another man appears in a tuxedo, his hair slicked back, jaw chiselled, but his eyes are hollow and don’t appear to focus on her or the man in tweed. He isn’t as present as she is, just a recalled memory, destined to rewind and repeat, year after year. He’s on his knees, his lip bleeding. She runs to him and tries to help him up, but his body is heavy.

  ‘Please. Go back inside. Go home. Go anywhere but here.’ She looks behind her and lets her eyes settle on the figure watching them from the wings.

  The woman he’d met in the dressing room only moments ago has been replaced by the woman from years before and he wishes that he’d seen back then the signs that something had been so utterly wrong. She, so usually full of light and hope, so young and oblivious, looked like a woman who was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. He could see it all so clearly now in this cruel memory; in the way she held herself and in the dullness in her eyes. If only he had noticed all those years ago, he may have been able to stop her, but his twenty-two-year-old self had been so blinded by love and the eagerness to escape to a new life with her. This night was meant to have been a night of triumph. A night of life for their love and a night of death for all that stood in their way.

  ‘Yes, Larson. Do as she says.’ The man in tweed smiles, taking a long drag on his cigar, the smoke billowing from his lips as he speaks. Larson stays put.

  ‘Please, Lars. Not here.’

  ‘She’s not yours,’ Larson hisses through gritted teeth and from the wings he mouths the line along with him.

  ‘Actually, Lars… I am.’ She holds up her left hand and reveals a large engagement ring that sends slivers of light dancing on the black stage floor. The ghosts of the audience gasp and a few let out audible sobs.

  ‘Eliza… no,’ Larson whispers. ‘NO!’ Larson pulls out a gun from his inside jacket pocket and aims it at the man in tweed. She jumps back, out of the way.

  ‘Oh, Larson.’ The man in tweed sighs and taps his cigar, ash falling to the floor. ‘When will you learn? It doesn’t matter how well you scrub up or how many lavish parties you sneak yourself into. It doesn’t matter how many of London’s finest you rub shoulders with or even how many wealthy women’s beds you wheedle your way into. You will never be good enough.’

  ‘Please don’t listen to him, Lars. Just go back inside.’ She is Eliza now, immersed in her role. She puts her hands on Larson’s arm and tries to lower the gun but Larson’s hold is strong and steady.

  ‘Do you love him?’ Larson asks, not daring to glance away from the other man. Eliza looks at Larson, her eyes filling up but her face unchanging. ‘Do you?’ he demands again.

  ‘I fear you’ll kill him either way.’

  ‘Eliza,’ he breathes. ‘If you tell me yes, how could you think that I would kill the man you love and put you through that misery? No, Eliza. Should you say yes, I will turn this gun on myself and the bullet will be destined for me.’

  More sobs erupt from the auditorium.

  ‘Must we have all this drama? It’s terribly dull,’ says the man, waving his hand, the smoke from his cigar billowing into the air, ‘We all know you don’t have the gall to shoot a rabbit, let alone a man. Just put the gun down, Larson.’

  ‘Do… you… love… him?’

  ‘I…’ She hesitates and, back in the wings, Walter feels every nerve ending fizz. That wasn’t her line then and it isn’t her line now. He had wondered then if maybe she’d forgotten but she had never forgotten a line in her entire professional life. Was this the moment when she had second thoughts about their plan? He had wondered all those years ago what could possibly have stopped her from saying the line, but had he known, he wonders if he would have had the courage to stop it anyway. And now, utterly powerless, he is forced to watch once more.

  ‘I…’ A tear rolls down her flushed cheek. Her chest rises and pushes against the fabric of her dress. ‘I… do not,’ she says and what happens next is a blur.

  The trigger is pulled, the sound of a gunshot rings out, the lights go out and the gasping audience is plunged into darkness. All of this is as it should have been.

  ‘Bring up the lights! The lights!’ shouts the man playing Larson. There is panic in his voice. Real panic.

  Slowly the lights fade up to reveal her body, centre stage. Her limbs are grotesquely twisted underneath her from where she has fallen and blood is starting to pool and trickle onto the stage. The audience erupts into screams and people start to push their way out of the aisles, desperation and fear driving them forward. The crew and actors flood the stage but no one goes to her.

  ‘Get out of here, boy.’

  He feels hot, wet breath on the nape of his neck and can smell the cigar smoke but when he turns his head all he sees is the darkness of the wing. Yet, he still hears a voice say…

  ‘Run.’

  He looks back to the stage and he knows exactly why no one had rushed to her aid that night. He knows why there was a perfect circle of people around her and not one of them dared to close the distance. It wasn’t fear or the amount of blood pouring from her. It wasn’t the shock and horror of it all, it was the simple awful truth that there was no helping her. It was too late. He crouches in the wing, his tears falling onto the dusty floor, and he can see that the light and delicious vulnerability that used to live in her eyes, the light that she so happily shared when someone happened to glance her way, was gone.

  His muscles relax and she and all of the other ghosts shimmer and fade and the stage is empty and cold once more. His eyes sting and he wills himself to stop crying. He trudges back through the wing, his step heavy, and sighs at the thought of putting all the mirrors away. He has time though, so he walks past the mirrors, leaving them against the walls, useless to him now, and goes to his desk in his small room just inside the stage door. Newspaper cuttings cover every wall. Each one contains news and reviews of various productions of When The Curtain Falls, collected over the years, a
nd clippings of the headshots of its ever-changing cast. He opens the laptop sitting on his desk and it springs into life and by the time he has managed to sink into the armchair, several emails have already pinged into his inbox. He scrolls through them, but one in particular catches his eye. It’s from the production company that owns the Southern Cross Theatre and the subject line reads Next In – CURTAIN FALLS. His old heart drums against his ribs with more force than he thought it still had and his veins fill with fire. He opens the email with shaking fingers.

  Dear Walter,

  I am very pleased to announce that once Gone With The Wind closes, April brings with it a brand new revival of When The Curtain Falls, exactly 66 years on, almost to the date. An obscure choice, perhaps, but we’ve discovered this play has a cult following, largely due to an accident that occurred during its last production which also happened to be at the Southern Cross Theatre. We think the combination of this connection and our new star-studded cast will pull in the punters!

  The show also has a wonderful plot that we think audiences today will still connect with and enjoy. The show starts with a pair of young teens who we can tell are destined to spend their lives together. However, she is from money and sadly, he is not and while she is sent away to school in the USA, the boy, determined to win the girl and seeing no other way of earning the riches that may also earn his way into her life, becomes somewhat of a con artist. When the couple meet again as adults, he has far more money than he’d ever dreamed of having, gained by clever but questionable means and he isn’t exactly who he says he is and whilst he is now a man of importance, is it worth the price he’ll pay to get the girl?