The Dragonfly Brooch Page 6

  In front of him is a young girl carrying a large empty bird cage. He closes the door behind him and begins to follow.

  The girl wears a cherry pink gown. The heels of her boots clatter on the uncarpeted floor. A boy dressed in an elaborate costume decorated with green feathers hurries past them in the opposite direction. The sounds of hammering can be heard through the walls: scenery building, construction. The girl with the birdcage keeps going, up a set of stairs, along a passage, all the way to the rear of the building. She knocks on a door, waits for permission to enter and then walks in. A small dressing room, glowing with gaslight and scented with fresh flowers and spirit gum is revealed. The walls are painted a muted dusty pink, the rug on the floor a deep emerald green, and there is a black silk shawl with beaded fringe hanging from a hook behind the door. Sticks of grease paint litter the table, their coloured paper wrappers dark and discoloured with fingerprints and marks. A young woman seated at the mirror rubs something into her face and turns to see who has entered. She makes no sign, but carries on with her toilette. Robed in a silk gown, which falls away from her shoulder, she reveals pale skin and the chain of a necklace where it trickles down her back … She is something of a beauty, this woman – large-eyed, with thick pronounced eyebrows and a bold mouth. Strong features, good for the stage.

  ‘Have you seen William anywhere?’ she says to the girl. ‘He’s late! He won’t have time to change! Fetch him would you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Devine.’ The girl puts down the birdcage and retreats. Charlie follows her deep into the bowels of the theatre, where they sink into a dark corridor and then rise up again, towards an arc light. Dangling ropes nudge at his shoulders and sweep across the top of his head.

  The safety curtain begins to rise. A voice interrupts …

  ‘Indulge me a minute … this is the first time I’ve trodden this stage since … it happened.’

  Charlie stopped where he was. He had just walked through the backstage area of the theatre and into the wings without even realising. Anne Marie was standing in the middle of the stage gazing out at the empty seats. ‘Feels weird,’ she said, ‘very weird.’

  He moved across to join her. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’

  ‘I was about to send you a text,’ she said.

  He performed a halting circuit of the stage, trying to imagine what it must feel like to have an entire audience out front, watching.

  She copied his route, her boot heels making a hollow sound on the boards. ‘I suppose you lay yourself open to all sorts, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You don’t know what’s going to happen until it does?’

  ‘Or how it’s going to make me feel.’

  ‘Sick? Dizzy? Cold? Trembling?’ She was describing herself.

  “Stage fright,” he had read, “is the anxiety, fear or phobia which occurs when the individual is required to perform in front of an audience or make a public presentation. The possible failure of the task results in fear and embarrassment. An acute awareness of one’s own behaviour hampers the performance. An increase in blood pressure in response to the ‘fight or flight’ instinct will cause the body to overheat and sweat. Other physical manifestations include pounding heart, tremors, nausea, nervous tics and a dry mouth.”

  ‘It must have been awful,’ he said, ‘to be blank. In the middle of the stage. With every eye upon you.’

  ‘You have no idea … or, perhaps you do?’

  He halted in front of the backdrop. With the wings to left and right, he directed his view across the auditorium, where the red plush seats were deep in shadow at the rear of the stalls. Underneath the dress circle the exit lights glowed green and a shaft of light from the lobby struck the aisle. He had nothing but admiration for her, for getting up there in the first place. ‘I couldn’t do it: stand here and perform, night after night.’

  She’d relaxed somewhat. ‘The point is that when you’re in the zone, when you’re in character, it comes naturally. You start at the beginning, and before you know it, a two- to three-hour performance is under way. The approbation of the audience is addictive; it’s what we do it for. There’s nothing like it. A TV studio or a film location can never replicate that adrenalin, that flying by the seat of your pants feeling, that immediacy, that intense vital moment …’

  He listened as she eulogised, lost in her memories, longing to experience the triumph again. He gazed around the dress circle, the upper circle, the ‘gods’, the boxes – Baroque design, ornate cupid decoration, gold leaf everywhere; an auditorium that managed to combine grandiosity and intimacy, all at the same time.

  She gave a wry smile. ‘I can live on the odd film role, the voiceovers. It’s enough. It gets me through.’

  ‘You don’t have to pretend,’ he said. ‘It’s not necessary. Be honest with me.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she admitted, facing front. ‘There’s nothing like the synergy between actor and audience.’ She warmed to the theme. ‘Once I lost one of my props. It got misplaced somewhere. I hunted everywhere, couldn’t see it.’ She mimed picking up a phone from an invisible table. She held it to her ear, started to stride around with it. ‘The audience could see I didn’t have a real one. But they went with it, they accepted my improvisation. An audible murmur of appreciation went around the auditorium, and I was on a high for the rest of the performance. Got a huge cheer at the end …’

  She gazed out across the footlights, imagining the audience on their feet: a crescendo of applause, whoops, cheers, the actor on the stage bowing deeply, affected by their good will, their emotion.

  And then Charlie glimpsed someone’s shadow cross the shaft of light at the rear of the stalls, breaking it momentarily. He looked again. The bar of light was once more complete, straight, unwavering. But a man with dark hair and a neatly waxed moustache – Edwardian in style – has entered the auditorium.

  Actor, owner, manager?

  As the man approaches the stage, a table and chairs, with cloths, candelabra and cutlery is being laid for a dinner party, but the stage hands aren’t arranging props; they aren’t even stage hands, they are caterers or waiters placing real food and drink in the middle of the table...

  Sprawling contentedly in one of the curly-backed chairs is a gentleman in evening dress, although his waistcoat is undone, and his collar has been loosened. His hair is slightly dishevelled; a dark curl hangs over his eyebrow. His dark eyes glitter in the lamplight, but his lids are heavy as though he is already heavily intoxicated. His cigar sends a tendril of smoke up into the flies. He is joined at the table by a second man who unstoppers a decanter and pours a glass of whisky. The man with the neat moustache takes his place and then a fourth, much younger than the others, joins them. He has an air of diffidence that suggests his place in the pecking order is lower than the rest of the gathering, but he holds up his glass to be filled and the whisky pourer obliges. Shirt fronts creak and watch chains wink in the candlelight on the table as the four men make small talk together. The scent of cigar smoke, perfume and hair oil mingles with the faint odour of musty cloth and scenery paint as they regard the fifth, empty chair. They are waiting for someone. And then a young woman arrives, resplendent of hair and jewels, lit up by the gas lamps in the auditorium. Her skirts drag the stage as she approaches and she lifts the fabric aloft and kicks the trail to one side making a space for her feet. ‘Come along gentlemen,’ she enjoins. ‘I’ve had the restaurant deliver the food specially. Let’s eat while it’s hot.’

  The men rise to their feet as she takes her place at the head of the table. ‘Now,’ she says, picking up a fork. ‘What were you all talking about?’

  ‘Oh nothing important,’ says the man with the neat moustache. He indicates the man on his left, the whisky pourer. ‘Geoffrey’s latest play.’

  ‘I suppose you think you could do better?’ Geoffrey responds to the insult with equanimity. ‘You critics have so much to say about a man’s labour, when you’ve never written a creative word in your life! It’s very easy to c
arp, much more difficult to create.’ He turns to the man with the curl. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, William?’

  William doesn’t respond verbally but a mild sneer plays around his lips.

  ‘Now now,’ says the woman, ‘play nicely, boys.’

  ‘I could easily write a play,’ says the man with the neat moustache.

  They all laugh uproariously, Geoffrey especially. ‘What about? A naive, innocent young beauty, taken advantage of by a great fat oaf?’

  They all laugh again. The woman leans over and pats the critic’s hand. ‘If I were you I’d do it: write one and show them how it’s done!’

  ‘Yes,’ says William, jabbing away at his food. ‘Put your money where your mouth is: write something for Minnie.’

  ‘Would you let me?’ says the critic, leaning towards the woman. ‘If I wrote a part for you, would you do it?’

  But the woman is not taking him seriously. ‘Don’t let them bully you, George! Come on, tuck in!’

  Conversation continues to fill the theatre space as the actress and her friends help themselves to more food and drink …

  And then the image blurs and fades to be replaced with something else …

  Above him is a lighting rig, and out across the footlights and beyond is an audience acting as one: a sea of faces, mouths slightly open, arrested in a state of concern and excitement. Something is happening on the stage, something they haven’t been expecting, and now they wait to see how this new drama will play itself out.

  As he slowly, carefully turns away from the audience and back to the players onstage, he sees a figure in the spotlight, apparently frozen mid-speech. Her eyes are wide, her brows contorted in pain and embarrassment as she struggles to extricate herself from the mess she is in. Clearly recognisable by now, Anne Marie, entirely exposed by the glow of the lights, fails to make any sense of what’s happening to her. Exposed to the gorgon-eyed stare of the audience, she nervously handles a stage-prop and makes up a bit of stage business; anything to fill the void. And then she shakes her head. ‘I’m so sorry everyone.’ She runs quickly into the wings as a sigh of regret eddies throughout the audience …

  Charlie blinked. She was gone. Except she wasn’t. Anne Marie was standing right now in front of him. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I’ve just seen you having your breakdown.’

  ‘Oh my God. Really?’

  Charlie’s skin had gone clammy, his throat was dry and his heart was pounding. ‘I could feel it,’ he said, pressing his hand to his chest. ‘The fear.’

  She shuddered. ‘How odd that you can conjure up a vision using my distress. Every night during that last production, I felt like there was something there, lurking, putting me off. Waiting for me to slip up, no, making me slip up. Next thing you know it’s “Anne Marie fluffs her lines”, “Anne Marie stuffs up”. By the end I thought I was losing my mind.’

  ‘There was something else,’ he said. ‘Before that. Some kind of Edwardian dinner party, on stage.’

  ‘Oh yes? Bernard Shaw, Pinero?’

  ‘It wasn’t a scene from a play. It was real. A catered meal with waiters and everything.’ It was the same actress he’d seen at her toilette in the dressing room upstairs. ‘Was that normal? Dinner, on stage after a performance?’

  ‘I have heard of it,’ she said. ‘Who do you think it was? Was it Minnie?’

  He repeated the names he’d heard mentioned: Minnie, George, William, Geoffrey. ‘We need to do some research. Who owned the theatre back then? Who belonged to the company? Which plays were being produced, which actors employed, basically anyone who was around at the same time as Minnie Etherege Devine. Has your father told you anything about her, or her life?’

  ‘A few bits and pieces, but like I said before – he hasn’t got much to go on.’

  ‘Would he mind if I spoke to him?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. I’ll give him a call. But do you think we could get out of here, now? This place is giving me the creeps …’

  She took him round the corner to a restaurant called The Blue Lagoon. It was still early and the place was half empty. Anne Marie chose a table at the back of the dining area, away from the window so as not to be observed, he guessed, and where she was almost half hidden by the coat stand. The director was meeting them there, she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve told him you’re my hypnotherapist.’

  Charlie perused the lunch menu and chose a complicated sounding salad. Anne Marie ordered wine and quickly drained her first glass. Each time the door opened she was like a sentinel on the watch, alert and ready, only to be disappointed when it turned out to be just another customer. Meanwhile she checked her phone every five minutes or consulted the clock on the wall above the waiter’s station. At long last a middle-aged man in faded denims and a purple shirt arrived and she shot up from her seat. ‘He’s here!’

  They greeted each other with an exuberant hug and kisses on both cheeks.‘Charlie, this is John Edgerton,’ said Anne Marie when she’d let him go. ‘John, this is Charlie Gilchrist.’

  Edgerton’s hand shake was bone-crunchingly tight – the grip of a man confident in his profession and abilities.

  ‘Anne Marie says you’re the man that’s going to get her back on stage.’ There was a touch of irony in his voice as he rubbed Anne Marie’s back in a paternal fashion. ‘Whatever it is you propose doing, let’s hope it works.’

  ‘A little push,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s all.’

  Edgerton smiled thinly as he took his seat next to Anne Marie. ‘It’s a small piece,’ he said, ‘a three-hander with a couple of walk ons.’

  ‘In some ways that’s worse,’ Anne Marie interrupted. ‘All the attention will be on me.’

  ‘You’ll be wonderful,’ said Edgerton flapping his napkin onto his lap. ‘You’ve ordered for me?’

  Anne Marie patted his leg. ‘I have.’

  She was happy now that he’d arrived, much more relaxed than five minutes before. The two of them exchanged small talk about mutual acquaintances, discussed a bit of theatrical gossip while Charlie rearranged his cutlery and felt superfluous and increasingly out of place. Edgerton ate quickly and aggressively. It was obvious he had somewhere else to be. ‘We need our girl match fit,’ he said at one point, which Charlie thought rather patronising. Anne Marie raised her eyebrows, but Edgerton enclosed her hand beneath his own and moved ever so slightly towards her. He insisted on paying the bill, and although Charlie refused and Anne Marie refused, he did it anyway, because it was his absolute pleasure and although he gushed that he didn’t have time to stay right now he would definitely make time to see Anne Marie later. ‘Bye darling,’ he said. ‘Bye Charlie, nice to meet you.’ And with that he was gone.

  ‘He’s not a fan of hypnotherapists, then?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about John,’ said Anne Marie as she gazed out of the window after him.

  There was more to their relationship than she’d let on. ‘You and he?’ Charlie asked. ‘Is he … ?’

  Anne Marie blushed furiously. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The director, all right? We’re friends now. Very good friends.’ She rubbed her nose and took a last swig of wine.

  ‘Does he know what he’s asking of you?’

  ‘Of course he does. He also knows I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.’

  ‘Only,’ he continued tentatively, ‘I would have said it was a bit exploitative of him …’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I trust him. I have to do it.’

  ‘Yes, but are you doing it for him or for you?’ said Charlie.

  ‘I won’t be doing it for anyone,’ she said, grabbing her bag, ‘unless you can help me.’

  Chapter Nine

  Victor Etherege, Anne Marie’s father, lived in a five-bedroom Victorian villa at the corner of a quiet cul de sac in West London. Answering the front door with an all too obvious theatrical flourish, he welcomed Charlie in with an effusive, ‘Good morning, Mr Gilchrist, lovely to meet you. Do come
through. Kettle’s boiled.’

  Despite the old-fashioned haircut, which Charlie assumed was left over from his professional heyday, the man was handsome and the meticulously ironed shirt and slim-fit trousers revealed a trim build and upright frame.

  The natural light from the fanlight in the door was supplemented by the golden glow of a table lamp at the far end of the entrance hall and as Charlie stepped further in he could see that every bit of wall space was taken up with paintings, playbills, posters and theatrical ephemera, including the staircase. Like the parade of Prime Ministers’ portraits at number 10 Downing Street, every role Victor had ever played was arranged in a timeline of framed film stills and photographs: Volpone, Macbeth, Jack in the Importance of Being Earnest, Archie Rice in The Entertainer, Fool in King Lear.

  Shown through into a riotously decorated living room overflowing with ornamental egg cups and thimbles, pill boxes and candle-holders, it took Charlie some while to take it all in. The fireplace was filled with a variety of pot plants and vases, while heavily brocaded curtains hung across the windows in sumptuous swags and folds. A pair of slightly faded Pre-Raphaelite posters jostled for company with a 1970s wood block print near the door. There was a wealth of history in this one room.

  Victor invited him to sit down on a large sofa swamped in fat silk-embroidered cushions. ‘Apart from a short spell when I was married to my first wife and touring the provinces, I’ve lived here all my life. All my children grew up here.’

  ‘Including Anne Marie?’

  ‘Yes. She’s the youngest – my favourite, although I shouldn’t say it.’ Victor placed a Moroccan occasional table next to the sofa and poured Charlie tea from an elegant pot into a fine bone china teacup. ‘Not very polite of her, is it, sending you here on your lonesome? Chocolate digestive, do you?’