Curtain Call (19 page)

Tom looked to Madeleine. ‘A drink after the show?'

Wanting to be agreeable, she smiled. ‘That would be nice.'

The interval bell had just rung. Peter downed his glass and said, ‘Righto. I have to look after this lot' – he gestured at his contingent behind him – ‘but I'll see you at my club. You know the Nines on Dover Street?'

Tom nodded, and they dispersed in the direction of their seats. Madeleine, having observed Peter's manner and the company he kept, now wondered if Tom was queer too. Devotion to the theatre wasn't necessarily a sign, though the business did attract a certain type. He dressed with care, and he seemed on very familiar terms with Peter. Perhaps what most inclined her to think so was his behaviour towards her. He was friendly, and had nice manners; he didn't try to peek down her dress, as other men did, or stand too close. She had become used to men giving her the eye, the ravenous gleam that meant they wanted to possess you or, if the mood went the other way, do you in.

The play had resumed, and again her attention was held by the actress playing the lover: Nina something.
She's got one of those faces
, Peter had said. Had she met her at Roddy's club? An ever-changing traffic of women flowed through the place, dancers, waitresses, street girls, it was hard to keep up with them all. She felt sure she hadn't spoken to her, yet she recognised her voice, slightly husky, quiet at first, then raised . . . she had been on her way out . . . her way out. She leaned forward in her seat, staring hard. Oh God, it was
her
. That afternoon in the Imperial. It was the woman who had knocked on the door. The voice that had saved her life. She had nearly run the woman down in her rush to get out of there. Now Madeleine remembered the face, and the startled expression as she careered past her.

She found her breathing had become shallow as the panic returned. The bruises on her neck had faded, but how she had come by them remained vividly present. The insect-blackness of his eyes, the hands bunched about her throat, the droplet of his sweat feathering her cheek . . . She felt her stomach lurch, and the dizzying approach of nausea. Grasping Tom's arm for leverage she rose, amid bemused murmurings, managed to whisper that she had to get some air and stumbled across him towards the aisle, hardly seeing, but moving headlong.

Absorbed in the drama, Tom had not noticed Madeleine's turmoil, and was taken aback by her sudden barging exit. What on earth was the matter? He had sensed an uneasiness in her just before the interval, but she seemed to recover herself once they got to the bar. He experienced a moment's indecision. The play was gravitating to its climax, and he was loath to miss it; on the other hand, she might be in real distress, in which case –

He found her outside, sitting on a fire-door step, head bowed, her shoulders rising with her deep breaths. He called her name, softly, and she looked up. The colour had fled from her face.

‘Are you all right?'

She closed her eyes, and nodded. ‘I'm sorry . . . I thought I was going to be sick.'

‘It wasn't the excitement of the play, was it?'

She gave a pained half-smile. ‘I don't know what it was – I just had a moment of – panic.'

‘Panic?'

She had not meant to say that, because it invited a question. She gave her head a little shake, as though to dismiss the word. ‘I sometimes have these . . . turns, when I'm in public.' She was making it up on the spot, but his grave expression indicated he believed her completely.

‘Oh dear – that sounds like what I've got!'

She felt awful about lying to him, the more so for knowing his own illness to be the real thing. But she had been forced to bluff. If she told him the truth about her encounter with the actress, he would naturally wonder what she was doing at a hotel in the middle of the afternoon. And it was important to her that he didn't know how she earned a living. She wanted to be just an ordinary girl to him. They continued sitting on the step for a few moments, looking down whenever the footsteps of a passer-by below sounded in their ears. Tom gave his watch a furtive glance.

‘D'you think you might like to go back in?' he said.

The shake of her head was decisive. ‘But please – don't let me stop you,' she added, catching his eye.

‘Oh, I wouldn't dream of it,' he said, smothering a surge of disappointment. ‘Perhaps we should stroll for a while – some fresh air might restore you.'

He helped her to stand, and as she rose she had to keep down a dangerous lurch in her gullet: unbearable to be sick in front of him. She felt his eyes nervously upon her as they began to walk, her hand light in the crook of his elbow. Tom wondered if Madeleine's discomposure had something to do with her recognising Nina Land, but he sensed how little she would welcome his prying. So he paid her the courtesy of silence instead. They had reached the Strand when he looked at her again.

‘We could take up Peter's invitation and pole over to the Nines . . .'

‘I don't think I can face it,' she replied, and felt another stab of guilt on seeing his crestfallen expression. ‘But I wouldn't mind a quick drink before I go home.'

A bus had just halted, and Tom said, ‘Come on then.' Before she could reply he had hopped onto the platform and was holding forth his hand. He seemed to her suddenly boyish, standing there against the pole, and the bus was already pulling away when she darted up to join him.

JIMMY, WHOSE STRIDE
was imperious before he had to use a stick, now found himself
skulking
, there was no other word for it, like one of those men who hung about disreputable bookshops in Soho. He was in the
Chronicle
building, just off Fleet Street, and had somehow got lost on his way to the arts department. His plan to slip in and out unnoticed had collapsed straight away. The chap at the desk had given him a very peculiar look, possibly because the slouch hat he wore was so obviously an attempt at disguise.

He stopped a copy boy hurrying down the stairs and learned that Lambert's office had been relocated to the fourth floor. Dammit – so much for his ruse to avoid the lift. By the time he got up there he was wheezing like an old horse. It was the asthma, exacerbated no doubt by the weight he kept putting on. He found the office at last, and knocked on the open door.

Lambert, glancing up, called out a greeting, then frowned as he examined his visitor's shadowed face. ‘Christ, is that a black eye?'

Jimmy, entering the room, didn't immediately reply. He parked himself on the horsehair sofa, removed his hat, and folded his hands over the head of his cane. ‘Domestic accident,' he said curtly.

‘I wondered what was up,' said Lambert, with the faint approach of a smile in his eyes. ‘Not like you to miss a deadline – two of 'em, in fact.'

‘I was operating out of one eye. As a critic I generally prefer to use both.'

Lambert had stepped around his desk for a closer appraisal of the damage. ‘
Phoo
. . . that's a proper shiner, isn't it?' He paused, and smirked. ‘Bit old for brawling, aren't you?'

Jimmy looked away in disdain. ‘As I said, it was an accident. At home.' His tone was coldly dignified, though to his own ears it still lacked conviction.

‘Right, yeah,' Lambert said, in the sceptical way that infuriated Jimmy. He had been holed up in his flat for days, shielding himself from the public gaze. Necessity had at last forced him out. The bailiffs were threatening another visit, and he needed to raise money quickly. In the usual run of things he would have sent Tom, but securing an advance from the paper required documents to be signed – or countersigned, or whatever it was – in person. It was humiliating, of course, to come cap in hand to one's employers, particularly for someone as well remunerated as he was, and he had made a private resolution that his accountant's letters must no longer be ignored.

A secretary had arranged the paperwork, to which Jimmy now appended his signature. He was conscious all the while of Lambert's insinuating presence as he stooped over the desk.

‘Looks like someone's in Queer Street.'

‘What?' said Jimmy, mishearing.

‘You. Hard up.'

Jimmy felt himself breathe again. ‘I've one or two creditors to pay off,' he replied,
not that it's any of your damned business
.

Lambert, lighting a Woodbine, stared into the distance. ‘How does it go? “Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and six –”'

‘“Result happiness” – yes, thank you, Mr Micawber. May I?'

Lambert picked up the buff envelope from his desk and handed it over. ‘Are you going to count it?'

Jimmy's instinct as a gambler was always to count it, but he didn't want to give him the satisfaction. ‘I'm sure it's all there,' he said, sliding it into his breast pocket. He was nearly out the door when Lambert said, ‘By the way, Barry asked you to call by. He's on the third floor.'

Jimmy scuttled off, irritated by this unforeseen diversion. Barry Rusk was one of his oldest friends, a man of like age who had started out as a hack before rising through the ranks of the paper. His was a classic newspaperman's face – lined – and from the distracted expression on it today Jimmy surmised he had not been called in for a pat on the back.

‘What happened?' asked Barry on seeing Jimmy's swollen eye.

‘Oh, you know . . . ' He sighed, though Barry's raised eyebrow suggested a fuller answer was required. ‘I had one of my little adventures.'

Barry, who understood the code, shook his head. He rose from his desk and closed the door of his office against the hubbub outside. ‘Honestly, Jim – I don't think you quite understand the danger you're in.'

Jimmy tried to make his chuckle sound devil-may-care. ‘Wouldn't you say I'm wearing the evidence?'

‘I'm not talking about that, though God knows why you'd want to hang around people who'd spit in your eye as soon as look at you.'

‘Ah. What “danger” do you mean, then?'

‘There was a luncheon on the top floor last week, hosted by our dear proprietor Lord Swaim. The usual thing – high matters of church and state discussed over smoked haddock and Meursault.'

‘Oh. Shame I wasn't invited,' said Jimmy lightly.

Barry gave him a level stare. ‘Your name came up, actually. You know Swaim likes to regard his newspaper as a bulwark of moral values, British probity and all that. Well . . . rumours have reached His Lordship's ears of a prominent writer in his employ who's been keeping some low company. He's concerned that if the man's behaviour became public knowledge it could damage the paper's good name.'

Jimmy felt a claw squeezing the inside of his chest. Swallowing, he said, ‘How much does he know?'

‘Enough that you should worry. He knows that you bat for the other side.'

‘
What?
How on earth –?'

Barry's frown was pitying. ‘People talk, Jim. You know that. It's not like you've been a model of discretion. I dare say there's a nice story behind that shiner you've got there . . .'

Mention of it caused Jimmy to raise a protecting hand over his brow. He thought he should hear the worst. ‘So he wants me out?'

‘Well, he got very exercised – quoted our old King, as a matter of fact – “I thought men like that shot themselves.” Fortunately the editor managed to calm him down – spoke in your defence, described your column as one of the most prestigious in Fleet Street, beloved of our readers, et cetera. You ought to be grateful to him. He got you a royal pardon.'

‘Good old Bostock. He always liked me.'

Barry shook his head. ‘You're not off the tumbril yet. If Swaim gets wind of any more of your antics, your feet won't touch – I mean it. Bostock defended you because you're a big name on the paper, but he won't risk his own neck to save you. If I were you I should lie low – and for God's sake keep it in your trousers.'

‘Yes, of course, you're quite right,' muttered Jimmy, feeling chastened. Barry had never told him off like this before, it really wasn't his style. That was a warning in itself. They talked for a few minutes longer before Jimmy sensed that Barry was waiting for him to leave – perhaps to embark straight away on his regimen of prudent behaviour.

He emerged from the building in a state of low-level panic. He had become so used to walking the high wire of his sexual proclivities that he had almost forgotten how suddenly the line might snap and pitch him into the abyss. Despite what Barry said, he
had
been discreet, relatively speaking. If there were whispers about his errant ways nobody had yet pinned anything on him. Unlike other inverts with a reputation to protect, he had never been arrested, or blackmailed, or – until last week – roughed up. Well, now he knew there was a first time for everything . . .

His adventure had been entirely on the spur of the moment. Having dashed off an amusing little squib (‘Who Reads Film Criticism?') for the weekend paper he called in at the Criterion for an early-evening plate of oysters. It would tide him over until his late supper with Peter at the Nines. In observance of his new austerity drive he ordered a half-bottle of the Muscadet. That went down quicker than a homesick mole, so he had another. Rolling out into the crowds around Piccadilly, he caught an autumnal whiff of petrol and roasting chestnuts in the air, with a layer of something else beneath: possibility. He crossed the road and called in at the blazing Long Bar in the Trocadero, a favourite hunting ground, but this evening so raucous he could barely hear himself think. He made for Soho instead, his step growing purposeful as the streets narrowed and darkened around him. As soon as he glimpsed the iron railings on Broadwick Street and its beckoning sign, GENTLEMEN, he felt the old thrumming in his blood, a sensation of delight that was inseparable from fear. Does a mouse resist the cheese even when it sees the trap? He walked past, then stopped and waited.