‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey,’ Hyacinth would say. ‘A man’s ego is one of the most fragile things in human nature. One slight knock and it’s broken for good and then who knows what’ll happen. Whilst the Suffragettes did a great deal of good, the time for raising our voices seems to be over for now. People like you and I need to be careful. We need to be patient. Carefully tip the scales in our favour without anyone noticing. And we do that by hiding our old clothes in the bottom of handbags to take to the charity shop and secretly leaving money in the hands of the vicar at the church to distribute to the poor and needy as he wishes.’
‘Mother, you didn’t?! Won’t Father know?’
‘Darling, your father gives me an allowance and what I choose to spend it on is up to me. As long as he sees me in a new dress once in a while, he thinks nothing of it. If I want to help those less fortunate it’s a shame I have to do it without your father’s approval but I’m never going to get that, am I? No matter, though. There’s nothing like a bit of secrecy to make life a little exciting.’ Although her mother smiled as she said it, the smile wasn’t quite convincing enough to reach her eyes.
And so, Fawn didn’t snap or leer at him with disdain when Hamish said the obnoxious things that insulted her existence as a female. Instead, she bit her tongue and smiled through the pain of it and said, ‘Of course, Mr Boatwright,’ whilst counting down the hours until she could find a way to make sure he had his comeuppance.
‘Oh please, call me Hamish,’ he said, his greasy moustache curling into a smile whilst Fawn made another mental note to only ever call him Mr Boatwright in the hope that it would annoy him as much as he annoyed her.
If only annoyance were the pinnacle of her worries. The bruises on her arm she was now having to lie to Walter about were cause for far more concern than Fawn had ever really had to muster. As a rich girl living in the heart of London, Fawn had never had much to worry about. Poverty, hunger, disease and loss had never troubled her life. Now, however, here was a man who made her skin crawl with his touch, when he wasn’t turning it purple with brute force. Until now, Fawn had lived her whole life in luxury, drinking martinis at far too young an age, wearing dresses that cost more than most people earned in a year and holidaying to France whilst people got sick from illnesses that she could cure a hundred times over with just the money in her pocket.
Despite the ache encircling her wrist, she couldn’t bring herself to speak up. Instead she just kept telling herself, this is bad but it could be worse, it could be worse… So she ran from Walter. She ran from the boy who made her laugh, back into the hands of a man who reminded her far too much of Foulfellow from Disney’s Pinocchio.
Walter wasn’t entirely sure what to do as he hauled himself up from the patterned carpet of the auditorium and into one of the red velvet seats. He weighed up his options. He most certainly couldn’t do nothing now that she had confirmed with her pained expression that Hamish Boatwright was not to be trusted and yet… he couldn’t go running after the woman who had only moments ago retracted her first name from his personal use. Although, the playfulness that had just transpired between them had been more than mutual, he was sure, Walter just couldn’t risk making things worse for Fawn. The overwhelming urge to protect her and keep her safe was palpable and he hoped it didn’t cling to the air around him and be misconstrued as desperation. He wasn’t in love with her. She’s just in trouble and I’m doing the decent thing by trying to help, he told himself. He wasn’t in love with her. I’m not in love with her. He wasn’t in love with her…
11
Opening Night
‘Stand by, everyone!’ called Eddie, the young but experienced stage manager. His voice could carry for miles in the theatre if necessary and there was a certain tone to it that made you wary of ever crossing him. However, he always had kind words to say, a gentle way about him and the safety of the company always came first. It therefore made him exactly the type of man Hamish Boatwright hated: incorruptible. When Hamish had heard that Edward Maynard was the best, he had hired him without a moment’s thought. It was only when Hamish began to suggest outlandish ideas for the production, such as some members of the cast should be rigged to fly, or that someone should swing from the dress circle to the stage in the bar brawl scene, that Hamish realised that Eddie wasn’t going to let him have the show he wanted. The only stunt Eddie did allow Hamish to have was a gunshot and that was only because Eddie knew a good props man who would provide that special effect for every show on the cheap.
Fawn stood in her opening position at a silver microphone on a raised platform centre stage. Bar stools and tables were dotted around her where some of the cast were seated, sipping drinks, whilst others were on their feet ready to dance as the curtain rose. Although this was only the dress rehearsal, Fawn could feel the sweat trickling down the small of her back and was hoping it hadn’t created a darker patch on the back of her opening dress. Once the opening of the show was out of the way, Fawn knew she would be able to relax and then start flexing her dramatic muscles and hopefully impress the audience into reviewing her kindly. Fawn longed for a day when she was given a role, not because of her daddy and his money and status, but because she was actually, undeniably good. She also longed to be cut from Hamish’s invisible puppet strings that he continuously tugged.
‘Fawn!’ She heard her name called in a loud whisper and her already humming heart chirruped in her chest.
‘Stage left!’ Fawn scanned the cast and could just make out a waving hand in the dark in the downstage left wing. Walter. ‘Break a leg!’ he said and although he was mostly hidden by the black cloths draped over the wing, she could hear the sheepishness in his voice. She wondered how many times her stomach was able to tie itself in knots before she was no longer able to function. She smiled, but knew it wasn’t quite enough to convey her apologies and quickly blew him a kiss before a hush fell over the cast. The curtain rose, the actor–muso behind her tinkled the ivories and Fawn took a breath… and sang.
The time for bowing finally arrived although the only people there to applaud were the lighting men in the gods who had already seen every scene a thousand times over. Fawn felt a huge sense of accomplishment wash over her and biting back tears proved much harder than she had expected. She caught eyes with Lawrence, the actor who played Lars, her romantic lead, and although usually quite stoic and someone who kept himself to himself, he laughed and squeezed her hand in the line-up for the bows a little harder than she was used to. Aside from a minor hiccup in the second act where Hamish had slipped on the train of Fawn’s dress and fallen over, which was the cast’s first challenge in corpsing, the run had gone better than they could have hoped. Even the single stunt that closed the show, in which Lars pulls the trigger of a gun and fires a hollow wax bullet and the lights black out, went without a hitch. Smiles were exchanged with the cast as they bowed together in unison and a shared sense of readiness for the night ahead filled the stage in a muggy fog that radiated from their sweaty skin. As soon as the curtain hit the floor, they whooped and cheered until…
‘That was a DISASTER. Why are you cheering? Have you no pride? No dignity? No integrity?’
‘Hamish…’ Lawrence put a hand on Hamish’s shoulder but despite being almost twice his height and half his age, Lawrence let Hamish shrug him off in a fit of rage.
‘What was that, Fawn? Your father’s money wasn’t worth the damp rag you’re impersonating.’
‘I… I’m —’
Hamish gripped her shoulders and shook her violently and this time it didn’t seem to matter who was watching.
‘You’re what? You’re sorry, maybe? Apologies just won’t cut it! You’re going to make me a laughing stock!’
‘HAMISH!’ Lawrence shouted, stepping in once more and grabbing Hamish by the shoulders – but he wasn’t quite quick enough. Hamish raised his hand and brought the back of it down hard on Fawn’s cheek, sending her to the floor with an agonising thud. Some of the girls gasped and
took shelter in the wings but Fawn was quick to be back on her feet, even if she did have to hold her cheek to try and stop the sting.
‘It’s a shame you didn’t like my performance, Mr Boatwright,’ Fawn said, looking him right in the eye. Then she took her hand away from her face, recomposed herself before leaning close to Hamish’s ear so that her words were heard only by him, ‘but at least I managed to stay on my feet.’ Then, with a swish of the train of her dress, Fawn vanished into the wings before letting the pain in her cheek bring forth a flurry of tears that rolled down her face and neck. She walked with a steady click-clack up the steps back to her dressing room. The desire to be alone became steadily more urgent as the golden number four on her door came into sight. Once inside, she fumbled behind her back for the lock on the door and twirled it with shaking fingers until she heard it ‘thunk’ and she knew she would be left entirely alone. Then she covered her mouth with her hand and brought forth a sob, so full of hopelessness and despair that it almost darkened the room. The pain in her cheek was intense and the marks on her wrist still purple and tender, another part of her body aching and marked by the hands of the same man. She took several deep breaths to steady her nerves and her anger and through her cascading tears she spotted something out of the ordinary on her dressing table.
Fawn walked to her desk upon which sat a champagne bucket from front of house, with a clean cloth parcel inside. When she lifted it, she could hear the satisfying jostle of ice cubes. Gratefully, she pressed the cloth parcel to the space between her right eye and cheek and revelled in the cooling numbness it brought her. Tucked underneath the ice bucket was a little folded piece of paper which she wiggled free and opened with her unoccupied hand.
Please meet me tonight?
Take the ladder on stage left to the fly floor.
When the curtain falls.
W.
Although Hamish had caused such an uproar, no extra rehearsals had been called before they opened that evening. Fawn wondered whether guilt had made Hamish rethink his words and his actions but most likely she figured there was some law somewhere that stated actors are entitled to a dinner break.
The ladder was shaky at the best of times when she’d seen other people climb its steel frame, but underneath her silver heels it felt like it would shudder and collapse at any moment. Nevertheless, Fawn climbed one rung at a time, one cautious, quiet step after another. She’d hidden in the downstage quick-change until everyone had filtered off stage and through the double doors in a cacophony of congratulations. The show had gone without a hitch, and once silence had fallen over the stage and the props had been put back in their places, the set made ready for the following day, Fawn, with only excitement in her bones, climbed to the fly floor above the stage.
Walter had watched the curtain call from the rafters, eager to see Fawn, to apologise for pressuring her when he should have been more understanding. Every minute that passed was another moment of doubt. Maybe she’s not coming, he thought and sighed, leaning over one of the cold metal railings, the stage now so dark that it looked like there was nothing below him except a dark, black endless hole.
‘Don’t lean over too far,’ Fawn said and Walter’s head whipped up to look at her, still in costume and as elegant as always. ‘No one wants another theatre ghost.’ She gave him a little smile, but it was brief and looked like it caused her pain.
‘I didn’t hear you climb up,’ said Walter.
‘I’m not surprised. You were so lost in thought.’ She stepped closer but one of her heels wobbled in the grated metal walkway, so Walter walked slowly over to her, one step at a time. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘You,’ he said without a moment’s hesitation. Embarrassment didn’t flood him, and regret didn’t immediately set in. In fact, the relief of being unashamedly honest squeezed his heart and as it did so, more words oozed through his veins, up his throat and out of his mouth. ‘Fawn, I’m so sorry. I never should have pushed you into answering my questions. I should have left you to tell me what you wanted to tell me in your own time. If you want to tell me anything at all.’ The fly floor was high up in the theatre and Walter steadied himself on the metal railing which was cool against his sweaty palms.
‘I do.’
‘You do?’ He took another step towards her.
‘I do want to tell you something.’ Fawn leant forwards, silently wishing for Walter to be closer, even just a little.
‘You can tell me anything, Fawn. Anything at all,’ he said. ‘And I swear it’ll never ever go any further than right here.’ He patted his chest where his heart was thumping. She looked at him, her eyes full and her cheeks red from the climb up the ladder. His flat cap was pulled down too far so that she couldn’t quite see his eyes, but his mousey blonde hair poked out from underneath it and she desperately wanted to feel it between her fingers. Just the thought of Walter wrapping his arms around her made her chest hurt.
‘I just want to tell you that I want you around. Always,’ she said, quietly. Walter took another step closer, his skin tingling.
‘That you’re the only man to have ever treated me with the respect I know I deserve. That I’ve not stopped thinking about you.’
Walter took one last step until he’d completely closed the distance between them, but he didn’t dare touch her. He kept his clammy hands by his sides but all the hairs on his body were standing on end.
‘I don’t want to ruin the moment,’ he said to his own feet, the brim of his hat almost touching the end of her nose, ‘but… I barely know you.’ He laughed.
‘You work in a theatre,’ Fawn said, reaching up and carefully removing his hat from his head. He quickly ran his wet hands through his hair, sweeping it all back and hoping it wasn’t unruly and defying the laws of gravity. ‘Surely you must have seen enough backstage romances to know that people fall in love at the drop of a hat,’ she added, helping to sort out the front of his hair. As her skin brushed his cheek she felt a warmth in the pit of her stomach and she couldn’t help but smile.
‘To be honest, Miss Burrows, I’ve only been working here about… a week,’ he said, not looking at her.
‘Oh.’ She laughed. ‘Well, how about the movies, then. Have you seen any of those?’ She teased, poking his chest but then leaving her hand on his shirt. His eyes flicked up to hers and he pleaded with her in his mind to give him any sign that she wanted to kiss him.
‘I love the movies,’ he smiled, realising he’d left it a little too long before answering her.
‘Then you’ll know how quickly people can fall. Love at first sight.’ She breathed and the mint from her mouth and the jasmine in her perfume tangled in the air and sent his senses reeling. Images of Hollywood starlets and leading men flickered in his mind. William Holden and Nancy Olson, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, Ginger Rogers and Joseph Cotten, even Cinderella and Prince Charming… he had seen love at first sight a thousand times. Who was to say it didn’t exist? Who was to say it couldn’t happen? Couldn’t happen to him?
‘It’s all fiction though, isn’t it?’ he shrugged. What are the chances this radiant star of the West End stage would be interested in the ‘boy’ that works on stage door? he thought.
‘Fiction has to come from somewhere, doesn’t it?’ she said, and he noticed her tone had changed. Her smile had gone, and she was fiddling with the button on his flannel shirt pocket with a seriousness he couldn’t explain.
‘Are you saying… you’re in love with me?’ he asked, breathing deeply, feeling her hand rise.
‘No…’ She smiled and although she’d said no, she let her answer hang in the air for a little while.
‘You’re not in love with me,’ he said, wondering why he felt a pang of disappointment in his gut.
‘No,’ she said again, looking down at the fingers of her other hand which she moved to gently brush with his.
‘How “not in love with me” are you?’ Walter stretched out his own fingers and slowly intertwined them with F
awn’s and a fire raced up from his hands, through his arms and around his neck. His cheeks burned. Fawn tried to lean in but one of her heels had become wedged in the grated floor again, although she tried to keep her cool and not let her inelegance show. She looked up at Walter, who shuffled a little closer so that their faces were so close that even a whisper was too loud. He placed his other hand over hers on his chest and pressed it closer so that maybe she could feel how she was making him feel.
‘Only a little not in love,’ she whispered.
‘Well,’ he said, his lips already touching hers, ‘that’s enough for me.’
Fawn returned to her dressing room that night where her dresser berated her for her lateness and unbuttoned her dress with such a force that Fawn wobbled in her heels and had to steady herself on her dressing table.
‘Where have you been, sweetie?’ Hamish poked his head inside her dressing room with his attempt at a sickly-sweet smile. He came into her room without knocking or permission and motioned for her dresser to leave, before closing the door behind him. Fawn wrapped her dressing gown around her as tight as she could, wishing she had got changed a little quicker or that her dresser had stayed a little longer.