‘What the fuck!’ Ryan stumbled towards her. ‘Jess! What are you doing here?’
Jess pointed at the woman who had stopped screaming. ‘What the fuck is she doing here?’
Ryan stood where he was and started to laugh. ‘Oh, my darling. How sweet you look in that hat. Here …’ He passed her an over-sized cardigan that was draped over the sofa, ‘Put this on and let me introduce you to Serena.’
I
t was not an easy evening. Ryan explained that Serena and he had arrived in London on the same flight and he had offered her their room for the night. He was planning to sleep on the sofa but she had come into the living room for a chat while he was getting ready for bed. They’d were just having a friendly natter before they both turned in.
‘I feel so awful,’ Serena gushed. ‘You must have thought the absolute worst when you saw us together like that, but I was just saying goodnight on my way to bed.’
‘Not at all,’ said Jess, assuming an air of nonchalance she really didn’t feel. ‘It’s absolutely fine. I’m just so sorry I inflicted my nudity on you!’
Both women laughed actressy laughs. Ryan looked from one to the other. His male brain sensing that a primal, female, territory-marking ritual was being performed here, but he couldn’t quite get a handle on it. Instead, he went to the airing cupboard to grab spare bedding and left them to it. When he came back they were in the same positions chatting about some soldiers Jess had met on the train. He dumped the duvet and pillow on the floor and scooped his clothes off the sofa.
‘Right, girls. Time for your beauty sleep. I’ll have the sofa and you two can take the double bed.’
Jess stiffened but Serena answered first:
‘Oh no, I bags the sofa! You two get into your own bed and I’ll see you in the morning. Night night.’ She shooed them out of the sitting room and closed the door.
*
Ryan fell into an easy slumber. Jess, lying next to him, stared into the dark. A small white-hot flame of jealousy was burning in her gut. She had to get control of it. Since that one time, almost six years ago, he had never been unfaithful to her. She trusted him. As he trusted her. She had quite liked it when he’d warned Ollie off. It was nice to know he was a bit jealous. But there had never been anything going on between her and Ollie. And nothing was going to happen between Ryan and Serena, she told herself. Even if she hadn’t turned up. Absolutely not. Ryan would never jeopardise what they had. Ever. The heat in her stomach cooled a little. By the morning it would be extinguished. Serena was just a gorgeous young actress whom Ryan was friends with. And that was that.
*
Serena stayed all weekend. Both she and Ryan had to go into Soho to dub their voices on to the latest episodes of
Venini
,
so it made sense for them to hang out together until their flight back to LA on Monday night.
Jess rather enjoyed playing hostess. While they were out, she shopped for food. She had missed the coffee and bacon smell of the local deli, and the staff had missed her. Marco, the owner, plied her with nibbles of cheese and ham and a perfect cappuccino while she decided what she would cook for dinner. He recommended a beautiful bottle of crisp Frascati to go with the melanzane sott’olio, caprese salad and focaccia that she had chosen as a starter. And with the veal scalloppine a bold Montepulciano red. Jess was an enthusiastic cook and what she lacked in expertise she hoped she’d make up for in flavour. For pudding she bought one of Marco’s fresh-made tiramisus.
Marco placed all the lovingly wrapped parcels into Jess’s round wicker basket and kissed her cheeks three times.
‘’E willa lova youa fora eva, Signora Jessa. And ifa hea doesa notta. I willa tella hima offa.’
‘Thank you, Marco. I’ll certainly let him know.’
As she strolled back to the flat the sun shone warm on the Willesden pavements. This would be her last visit to London until after
Hats Off, Trevay!
came to an end in September. She shut her eyes for a moment and thought of Cornwall. How at home she was feeling there. How happy Elsie and Ethel were, sniffing in the rock pools and paddling in the wavelets. She knew Brooke would be spoiling them rotten back at Granny’s Nook, but she wished she could have brought them with her to London. She missed their tappy claws trotting after her and the way they’d come to her for a snuggle. They could be ring bearers at the wedding. Would that be too horribly cute? Oh, what the hell, she told herself, if you can’t be cute on your wedding day, when can you!
Just two streets away was a very chi-chi bridal shop. Although she couldn’t resist gazing in whenever she passed by, she’d never had the courage to actually stop and stare. It wouldn’t do any harm today though, would it? Over supper tonight she would talk to Ryan about it, and get some input from Serena too. That would draw a fence round Ryan and signal to Serena that he was taken.
Hefting her fashionably artisan but super-heavy and rather awkward wicker basket from her right hand to her left, she made the detour to the wedding dress shop. It was called L
OVE IS FOR
A
LWAYS
and the window was glistening with crystals and marabou feathers. In the centre of the display a mannequin was dressed in the gown of Jess’s dreams. As if in a trance, she put her hand to the door handle and entered.
The middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted her warmly. With kindness and efficiency she had Jess out of her clothes and into the dress in five minutes.
It fitted perfectly.
*
Supper was delicious and Serena a very appreciative eater. She and Ryan spent the entire evening talking with each other about people Jess hadn’t heard of and laughing at anecdotes she didn’t understand. When the last drop of wine was poured into Serena’s glass, she and Ryan got up and made their way into the sitting room, leaving the table and the washing-up to Jess. She had tried to tell them about her day and the magical, wonderful dress that was hanging up in a special bag in her wardrobe, but there just hadn’t been a moment when she felt it appropriate to open the conversation.
Never mind, she told herself, there’s always tomorrow.
*
Tomorrow was Sunday. A lie-in, the newspapers, coffee and croissants sitting outside the café across the road from the flat. All these things Jess did on her own. Ryan and Serena had had to get to Soho early to finish the dub.
‘What time is your train tonight, darling?’ asked Ryan as he left.
‘Three minutes to six.’
‘Great. I’ll be back in time to give you a lift.’
He wasn’t. He phoned at four to say there had been a technical problem with the recording equipment and he didn’t know when he’d be home.
Jess’s black cab rattled its way from Willesden to Paddington, the driver keeping up a long monologue listing all that was wrong with the country today and what he’d do if he met Boris Johnson. Jess sat quietly in the back responding with the odd nod of assent but feeling very insecure. She longed to call Emma, to ask her what she thought. But she didn’t. Jess had a horrible feeling that she knew what her sister would say.
*
‘Poor Jess, what a horrible weekend. How could Ryan be so thoughtless?’ Brooke was hurt on Jess’s behalf. ‘You should have stayed here with me and the girls. We had lots of fun. Didn’t we, ladies?’ Brooke tickled both Elsie and Ethel, who were flat out next to her on the sofa. ‘Ollie came over and we played cards and watched telly and ate popcorn. The weather was glorious. We took pasties down to the beach and even had a swim. Bloody cold, mind, but I think it cheered Ollie up. Flashed his muscles on the beach, which were greatly appreciated by every woman down there.’
When there was no response to her chatter, Brooke looked over at Jess. It was obvious that she was feeling utterly miserable. ‘Come on, bird. It’s just a blip. He’s busy, you’re busy. Long-distance love ain’t easy. Look at Ollie and Red.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jess. ‘How are things between them?’
‘All off. They’ve talked a bit on the phone, but she’s out in a different world. Even though Ollie hasn’t been happy for months, it still hurts when you’re the dumpee rather than the dumper.’
‘Poor Ollie.’
‘He’ll be fine. He’s a good-looking twenty-eight-year-old with a set of pecs to die for. Don’t worry about him.’
‘Speaking of pecs – how’s Louis?’
Brooke looked away and fiddled with the remote control on the arm of her chair, ‘Oh, you know. He flies in and out on the breeze. There’s a bit of family stuff he’s got to show his face for and then he’s got an assignment with his cousin and a group of injured servicemen …’
‘Will he make it to the first night?’
‘He says he’ll try.’ Brooke brushed her blonde fringe out of her eyes and looked again at Jess. ‘What about Ryan?’
‘He says he’ll try.’
‘Good.’
‘Yeah … good.’
I
t was ten days to opening night.
The weather had warmed up and holidaymakers were filling the streets and B&Bs of Trevay before the school holidays got into full swing.
Liz Parker, the Pavilions’ glamorous new publicist, had lined up interviews with all the local media, plus some big guns from the national press. Jess, Ollie and Brooke were excused from morning rehearsals to fulfil their quotas of interviews.
Journalists, no matter how original they thought they were, asked only the obvious questions:
‘Jess, when are you and Ryan getting married?’ And, ‘Is he coming to the first night?’
Answer: ‘It’ll be a private affair. We’ll let you know when we’ve done it.’ And, ‘It would be great if he can make it.’
‘Ollie, have you and Red split up?’ And, ‘Is she coming to the first night?’
Answer: ‘We are good friends.’ And, ‘Maybe.’
‘Brooke, you lost a big job with Café Au Lait a few months ago amid rumours that you were out of control. Was it drugs?’ And, ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
Answer: ‘Don’t believe all you read in the papers.’ And, ‘Are you flirting with me?’
‘Colonel, what does it feel like being back on stage?’
Answer: ‘Like coming home, old chap. Like coming home.’
Jonathan was interviewed by the arts reviewers of the
Guardian
, the
Observer
and
The Times
. When they appeared in print, the interviews were prefaced by subheadings in bold type: ‘Once touted as a great director in the making, why is Mulberry now officiating at an end-of-the-pier-show?’ And ‘Jonathan Mulberry, the man the West End forgot. Can he save a seaside theatre and his career in one season?’ And ‘A likeable man, but he’s no Trevor Nunn’.
These painful articles served to make the rehearsal atmosphere nervy, to say the least. The only man to keep a perspective on it all was the Colonel. One afternoon after Jonathan had lost his temper spectacularly with Miss Coco and her youngsters, he stepped in.
‘Mr Mulberry, kindly sit down and be quiet!’ he commanded.
Jonathan, his cheeks puce and a vein throbbing in his throat, took a second before sitting.
In a softer voice the Colonel continued: ‘Brooke, dear, would you take our young dancers out to find refreshment.’
Brooke duly gathered up the white-faced and teary dancers and led them out of the theatre and into the welcoming warmth of the foyer café.
The Colonel then made his way to Miss Coco, who was standing ram-rod straight, her mouth pinched and her hands trembling slightly at her side. Determined to maintain her dignity, she hadn’t moved since Jonathan had started bellowing.
‘Mr Mulberry,’ said the Colonel, ‘I believe you owe Miss Coco, and indeed the entire cast, an apology.’ He glowered sternly at the director.
Jonathan shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘I apologise, Miss Coco. My behaviour was unjustifiable.’
She took a deep breath and said. ‘So you withdraw the remark about my dancers moving like three-legged camels on a plate of snot?’
Jonathan had the grace to blush. ‘I do. Wholeheartedly.’
‘And that I am to choreography what a bucket of paint is to a fur coat?’
Jonathan brushed an invisible crumb from his corduroy trousers and said, ‘Yes. I do.’
Miss Coco waited a beat, then inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Apology accepted.’
Jonathan spoke again. ‘And to the whole company, I apologise for my lack of professionalism.’
This was greeted with murmurs from the cast of ‘That’s all right’, ‘Quite understand’ and ‘It’s all a bit tough at the moment.’
The Colonel looked around the room. ‘I think we should take a short tea break for the troops to rally themselves. Back here for half past, chaps.’ He turned to Jonathan: ‘Would you stay behind with me for a moment?’
Once everyone had left, and the stage and the audi-torium were their own, the Colonel took a seat next to Jonathan, who was leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling.
‘What’s the matter, dear boy?’
Jonathan lifted his head and looked at the Colonel. ‘I can’t see the wood for the trees. Am I a useless director? Is the whole thing shit? Are we heading for disaster?’
‘Ah.’ The Colonel smiled kindly at Jonathan. ‘You’ve lost faith in our strength as a platoon. Perfectly normal, old boy. I’ve seen it many times. Felt it myself once or twice. Now look here, you are their commanding officer. You’ve trained them well. They know their job and what has to be done. Victory is in our grasp.’
‘Colonel, with all respect, this could end my career.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s the end of my reputation.’
‘How very selfish of you. You put your own life and reputation above those of your men?’ A pause and the Colonel added, ‘And women?’
‘They’ll be all right. They’re all talented and young. They have families to go home to.’
‘Not true of all of us.’
Jonathan looked ashamed. ‘So what should I do?’
‘My dear boy, what we all do in these circumstances – man up! Feel the fear and do it anyway. Isn’t that what today’s popular psychology tells us? In my day it was “Pull yourself together or face a court martial in the morning.” That usually sharpened us up.’
Jonathan managed a small laugh. ‘I can see that it would. No one’s going to shoot me, are they?’