Lightning Encounter (14 page)

‘Yes, she loved me. That's what I worked on to keep her going. Honest to God, I didn't know she wouldn't be able to stand the high pressure show business pace.'

‘Was it that, do you think?' mused Karen, realizing he wasn't crying for Val, but for
himself,
for his shattered dreams, for his lost chance.

‘Or was it the fact that she found out you had used her. That when the aces were down, you didn't love her at all?'

He didn't say anything. The tears continued to come, they slid down the furrows on either side of his mouth.

She buckled into him: ‘For goodness' sake, man, take a hold of yourself. Do you realize we've less than fifteen minutes to change? And it takes me twenty just to put on my eyes!'

‘Do you mean,'—he gulped—‘you'll do it? After what you know, you'll still do it?'

‘I'll try,' said Karen. Her voice broke and she said something peculiar. ‘I can only hope it's the same thing.'

* * *

Mitch led her on to the darkened dais, squeezed her hand, then left her to take his place at the piano. The act had been announced, the clinking of glasses and the babble of voices had ceased. A hushed silence prevailed.

Karen could smell the roses on the nearby table. They were yellow roses. She had seen them just before the lights were extinguished. She tried to blank out the roses and think of something else during the few remaining seconds before the spotlight pinpointed her
aloneness.
Something, or someone, to give her the strength she lacked.

Ian, she felt his presence as if he was nearby, but she couldn't see his face for the yellow roses. The roses out there were buds, the roses she saw were full-blown, spilling petals on the tablecloth. Giving them, Señor don José Alvarez had said: ‘Poor roses. They have bowed their heads to a superior beauty.' She had smiled, because that is the way to receive a piropo. Like all his countrymen, the good señor was adept at paying extravagant compliments.

The seconds were running out. Mitch began to play the opening bars. The music rolled like waves of sound into her subconscious. Under her breath she repeated the words of the song, to make sure she hadn't forgotten them. An arpeggio sounded like a clap of thunder, now his syncopating fingers were making the tinkly sound of rain.

Karen could never be sure if she began to fall before the spotlight was turned on, or after. Perhaps it was simultaneous, because the audience saw the pale, petrified face in the descending point of white fire; then she crumpled to the floor, to lie like a broken doll in the wider, circular beam of light.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ian ushered the manager and several hovering attendants, out of the manager's office. Karen occupied the only chair, so he sat on the edge of the desk.

‘Start at the beginning,' he instructed, ‘and tell me all about it.'

‘Yes, well,' said Karen, accepting his presence with utter naturalness, although later, when her brain began to clear, she would marvel that her need of him had brought him so swiftly to her side. It had been Ian's arms that had lifted her off the floor and carried her out of range of all those staring eyes. ‘Mitch said I had a passable voice and he asked me if I'd ever sung professionally. I hadn't, of course, and—'

‘That isn't the beginning,' said Ian. ‘That wasn't stage fright. I would say it was a collective effort. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think ordinary stage nerves triggered off the memory of a bad experience. Begin there, with the bad experience.'

‘Yes, I'll begin there. With the storm. You are quite right, it wasn't the stage or the audience. It was the blackness and the smell of the roses. It became very black, the day of the storm, and there was a bowl of roses on the table. Yellow roses, like those out there
tonight.
They brought the memory very near. So that when Mitch began to play, it sounded like rain. I don't know if it did sound like rain, really, but the notes were tinkly and because my mind was keyed up to expect it, it sounded like rain. Then he played an arpeggio which sounded like thunder. No, I'm getting mixed up, the arpeggio came before the rain sound. Then the lightning struck.'

‘I take it the lightning was the spotlight?'

‘Yes, Ian. By that time my imagination was working full power because the spotlight stabbed, just as the lightning had.'

His grave face grew graver still as she described the burning sensation as the tip of white fire touched her skin. The simple act of talking about it pained her and all but stole her voice away. She was mentally and physically exhausted, but even so her fighting chin went up in a desperate bid to conquer this disabling fright-fatigue.

She put her free hand to her forehead. (Ian was holding her other hand, tightly, comfortingly, reassuringly.) Her forehead felt clammy and the room suddenly tilted. ‘Drink,' coaxed Ian. She felt the thin rim of a glass against her mouth. Her lips slackened to let in a drop of the amber liquid.

‘I'm better now, thank you. Am I having a reaction? I ask because I seem to be talking a lot. I want to talk and talk and talk. It's a compulsion.'

‘Don't
fight it. Talk is healing. It rids the system of a lot of poison. Talk as much as you want to.'

‘Strange, but I can't think of anything to say now.'

‘Say what is in your mind at this moment.'

‘You won't like it?

‘Say it anyway.'

‘Well, I'm thinking about Mitch. I told you you wouldn't like it,' she said, noting the bunching of the muscles controlling his mouth. ‘I know about him, by the way, what he did to Val. Not in detail. I know the skeleton of the story, not the flesh. I know her breakdown was the result of his treatment, plus her own vulnerability. Mitch is bad, I'm not saying he isn't. It's very bad to ride roughshod over somebody's ideals for purely selfish reasons. Mitch is very selfish, but I don't blame him solely for Val's condition. I think she was gulled by her own susceptibility, and you can't blame Mitch for that.'

‘Why don't you say, even you? It's what you mean.'

‘Perhaps. Do I sound to be reading the lesson?'

‘Do you mean to?'

‘Yes.' She didn't stop to consider whether she was being wise or unbelievably rash; she disregarded the whipping tightness of his mouth and the insidious drop, not more than a fraction of an inch, of eyelid, and ploughed
remorselessly
on. ‘I want you to rid yourself of some of that bitterness.'

In truth, he looked more surprised than enlightened, but he appeared to consider the possibility, though with misgivings. ‘You're not suggesting I should regard him as a friend?'

‘Oh no! That would be impossible. I merely want you to see both sides.'

‘Why?' He forgot to pinch his mouth and looked—well, approachable. It clued her to say: ‘Because,'—pause to swallow on a dry throat—‘I think when you've stopped feeling sorry for me, you're going to be very angry with me. Not for going into this venture with Mitch. But for not telling you. I think you'll find the deceit harder to stomach than the action. I think I'm going to get a slap of that bitterness.'

He smiled at that, but still he looked mystified. ‘Why did you, Karen? What did you hope to get out of it? Glamour? Fame? Does every little girl dream of taking the world by storm?'

‘I don't know about every little girl. I can only speak for two. Val did it for love of a man. I hope it doesn't hurt too much to recall it, Ian, I don't know the extent of your involvement, but she adored Mitch. She closed her eyes and he dusted them with stars. She followed him blindly.'

‘And the other little girl? You?'

‘For love. Another sort of love,' she said,
rushing
the words out as though glad to be rid of them. ‘The love of money.'

‘That surprises me. I wouldn't have thought you were mercenary.'

‘I'm not. I needed the money for a specific purpose.'

‘Why didn't you come to me?' he enquired in a light clement tone. ‘I would have advanced you any amount within reason.'

She said awkwardly: ‘I'm afraid you don't understand. I wanted the money for you. To pay back what I owed, so that I could go my own way.'

The smile left his mouth, yet the set of it was neither brooding, nor bitter, but gravely considering. ‘Was that so very important to you, to go your own way?'

‘Yes, yes, yes.' The words were torn out of her and she felt the sting of his tenderness under her eyelids. Because his tone was levelled with such a lot of patience and no condemnation, her fighting spirit began to wane; her thoughts were reduced to an economical low. ‘I've gone through all that torture and accomplished nothing. And do you know who I feel sorriest of all for? I'm being stupid again, I know it, but I can't help it. I feel sorriest of all for Mitch.'

‘You're wrong, Karen. I should say a great deal has been accomplished. As far as Mitch is concerned—' He went to the door and opened it, letting in, besides the draught that blew
down
the long corridor, a vigorous, hearty, raucous, vibratory assault of sound.

‘What is it?'

‘Audience participation. The stuff they call applause.'

‘You mean—?'

‘Yes, it's for Mitch.'

She swallowed. ‘With that much appreciation ringing in his ears, I see my sympathy is misplaced. How did it—?'

‘Happen? Because he's Mitch. Because he's single-minded, his whole outlook is centred on the one purpose, it's called ambition; and because he has the gall to make capital of a situation that would have floored anyone but a true pro. And I suspect I'm tiring you,' he said, detecting the signs of strain and fatigue.

‘Not really. In any case I shan't be able to relax, not properly, until my curiosity has been appeased.'

He thought over her words, digesting the element of wisdom; nodded, and continued: ‘You folded up like a doll. I was still regaining my breath when Mitch got to his feet and shouted, ‘If my playing does that to the little girl, let's see what it'll do for you.' It was fantastic, really, the way the audience was welded as one. You could feel the tension, hear the shocked gasps until Mitch stood up and said his piece, and then there wasn't a one among them who wasn't delighted to be conned. They loved it, they loved Mitch for
playing
such a trick on them. You see, they believed it was part of the act because that is what they wanted to believe. Everyone craves a happy ending and well, after that icebreaker—which, if I'm any judge will be a permanent feature of the act—Mitch couldn't put a finger wrong. He's made what is commonly known as a come-back.'

‘I'm glad,' said Karen simply, ignoring the return of bitterness in his voice. He felt too deeply to rejoice for Mitch. As far as their own relationship went, she knew the evening had taken its toll. Although he had shown her nothing but kindness, he didn't for a moment hide the fact that he was displeased with her. How could he be anything else, hating Mitch the way he did? At one time she had hated Mitch almost as intensely, but not now. She felt only pity; it was almost as if he wasn't worth the greater emotion any more.

‘I think I'm ready to go home, now,' she said.

On the first part of the homeward journey they hardly spoke. Although the situation had been discussed at length, she felt there was a small but important something that hadn't been touched on. A detail that eluded her. She went back, trying to resurrect the one thought, action, word that would activate the particular thought, action, word she was seeking.

It had been a funny evening, right from the word go. The dash and scramble to the club,
Mitch's
tearful breakdown which had pushed her into something she hadn't been capable of handling. Ian's prompt appearance. Odd, how it had only just occurred to her how conveniently near to hand he had been.

Oh! She was remembering that she should have been at the Franks'.

‘How did you find me?' she managed. Her dismay was acute and comic as she assimilated, digested, wavered between the two obvious courses.

‘What shall I do? Attack? Pretend to be furious. After all, you didn't waste much time in following me. Or should I defend myself?'

Awarding her full marks for audacity, he said tartly: ‘If the implication is that I didn't believe your cover story, that I deliberately snooped around, you should certainly look to your defence. You see, after you'd departed, supposedly to visit Angela's parents, Mrs Franks phoned you. To set up a meeting.'

‘I see. That rather blew my alibi, didn't it? But,'—she hurriedly retrenched—‘that doesn't explain how you found me.'

‘Mitch did finalise the arrangement by telephone,' he pointed out acidly.

‘Yes,' she agreed, latching on to his meaning. ‘But you'd pre-warned me about my indiscreet habit of doodling. I destroyed the evidence.'

‘Not exactly,' he corrected. ‘I found it, after a search, screwed up in a tight little ball in the
fireplace.
I'm only glad nobody felt cold enough to light a fire.'

‘Nobody. Oh, you mean Val!' The tone of her voice was a mistake, and the tumult of her thoughts pushed her into deeper wrong. ‘I wonder you could bear to leave her.' It was always the same when they spoke of Val. She put out a prickly antenna of dislike. Yet she would have sworn she didn't dislike her. It was just that she found it difficult to like her.

She put her back wearily on the seat, turning her face towards the window. Apparently engrossed in the ghostly shapes of the passing hedgerows. A bat flew out of the darkness, somewhere an owl hooted. Her heart felt like lead. No amount of chafing would dispel this new coldness that had crept between them.

‘Don't take it out on Val,' he said through taut lips. ‘If you think I shouldn't have meddled in your affairs, then come right out and say so. Or would that be too straightforward for your crooked little mind? You seem to prefer to dabble in deceit.' There was a long pause. He spent it regretting his harsh words because he said: ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was unpardonable of me.'