February 1924, The Old Vic, London
The man sitting – no, slouching – in the seat opposite her was called Harold Cromwell and he was, for heaven’s sake, the biggest dullard she’d ever had the misfortune to converse with. He was a filthy rich publisher specialising in maritime fiction and non-fiction, although the majority of his fortune was amassed through his dead wife, who’d contracted malaria while visiting West Africa. Maritime fiction! What was she supposed to do with that? Her father had introduced him to her at a formal dinner in Brighton last week and they’d chatted politely. That should have been that, but then she had to go and tell him about her friend Bart’s debut on the London stage and, spotting an opportunity with his greedy little blueberry eyes, he’d asked if she’d like to go with him to the opening night, and she was too taken aback to think up a fast fib.
‘I’m sorry, what were you saying?’ she said, reaching for her champagne.
‘I was saying, your friend seems to be having a jolly good bash at old Mercutio. A natural if ever I saw one.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, sipping her drink. It was the interval. Bart was doing well and she felt supremely proud. He captured Mercutio’s cocky posturing perfectly, no surprise there, and his oration was clear and musical.
‘His first night, too! I wonder, how long has he been at it? Acting, I mean.’
‘Not very long, actually.’
‘One would think otherwise.’
‘True. One of his schoolteachers spotted the talent. In all the years I’ve known him he’s never confessed to having any interest in the theatrical arts at all. He was an absolute triumph at the audition, you know.’ She kept back the part about the director being a friend of Lucille’s. It possibly bore no significance.
Harold fiddled with his cigar case, eyes down. ‘And how long have you known him, may I ask?’
Ah, thought Bettina, and so now we come to it. ‘Since we were babies really.’
‘And is he settled yet? With a spouse, I mean?’
‘No. So far he has thwarted all of his mother’s match-making attempts.’
Harold nodded for too long. ‘Right. Right. Bit of a serious business, finding the right person.’
Bettina looked at him coolly, fingers laced around the delicate stem of the flute. ‘It is. One must be very choosy.’
‘Right. Right. You’re not wrong there. Well, shall we make our way back to our seats?’
‘Do you mind if I nip to the ladies’ first?’
‘I don’t mind at all.’ He jumped up to pull her seat out. He had very weak shoulders, she thought. Like the sloping roof of a derelict barn. No – there really wasn’t any need for this cattiness. He was just a sad old widower. A sad, rich old widower after a young trophy wife to flaunt to his— oh, shut up, Bettina. She picked up her purse and walked away. ‘Do you mind awfully if I nip to the lavatory to slit my wrists?’ she said to herself. ‘Do you mind terribly if I nip to the lavatory to bash my skull repeatedly against the porcelain?’
The ladies’ was floor-to-ceiling marble and in the centre was a grand water fountain made of coral-pink stone. A black-haired woman stood at the far end, applying lipstick in the mirror. She wore a glittering, white sleeveless gown with a turquoise sash and matching turquoise gloves and her limbs were chubby and pale. Small doll hands. Large bosom. Bettina stopped and stared, and noticing, perhaps, the sudden halting of footsteps, the woman looked over at her.
‘Margo?’
The lipstick was slowly lowered and returned to the beaded evening bag open on the counter. Lips were smacked and blotted with tissue. ‘Oh,’ said Margo. So prim, that ‘oh’, so nonchalant and prim, as if her cook had just told her that the parsnips had gone bad. ‘Hello, Bettina.’ Her peat-black eyes cool – no: cold. What a fine display, thought Bettina, what a superb performance. Well, I’m not going to stand for it. She marched up to her old friend and grabbed her around the upper arms. ‘Please drop the frosty cow routine. You were my only friend in that rotten school and I’ve missed you terribly.’
Margo gaped up at her, irises jittering as she processed this. And then quite suddenly, she laughed, her jaw clanging open and her eyebrows tilting in that helpless way, and she took Bettina in her arms and held her tight, the laughter still bubbling up. I will not, thought Bettina, take pleasure in this embrace. But the way she was laughing, her whole body shaking, and all of this pressed tight against her.
Margo pulled away, wiping a tear with a gloved finger. ‘I forgot how bold you are. Oh dear.’ She shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m so glad you just said that, because if you hadn’t, I would have carried on with it and we would have bid goodbye in polite, curt voices and that would have set the tone forever.’
‘I would’ve hated you. Honestly.’
Margo had been pulled out of St Vincent’s by her father after the boiler-room disgrace and Bettina hadn’t seen her since. She’d constantly wondered how she was faring, and missed her horribly during term time, forcing herself to befriend a stout American girl called Isobel who criticised absolutely everything and everyone she came into contact with and had nothing good to say about England at all (if English food was so disagreeable to her then why did she fill her face with it at any given opportunity?). She imagined Margo locked in a room at the top of her house, like Mr Rochester’s mad wife, and sometimes thought, meanly, Well, where’s your liberal mother now? According to Lucille, who somehow knew everyone’s business, Margo’s father had been on the verge of sending her to a sanatorium. Bettina’s parents, though incensed about the drinking and the smearing of her reputation (their reputation), were a little more level-headed about the other stuff, since ‘everyone knows this type of thing happens in boarding schools, so no need to whip the silly mares over it’ (her father’s words). But Margo’s family had that sapphic great-aunt locked up in the attic of their history.
‘I have so much to tell you,’ said Margo in a frantic whisper, ‘only my auntie is waiting outside for me – she’s my chaperone, can you believe it?’
‘Oh, I don’t need a chaperone,’ said Bettina, ‘because the man I’m with might as well be a eunuch and has been expressly instructed to allow me only one glass of fizz.’
Margo rolled her eyes. ‘Isn’t it dreadful, all because of … anyway, it’s dreadful. Bart is bloody brilliant, by the way, and so dishy – why didn’t you tell me he was dishy? Oh! An idea is forming! I’m to dine at Galliano’s after the show, why don’t you drop the eunuch and join me? I’ll just tell Auntie Vera you’re a different Bettina. Someone from church or something.’
‘I can’t just drop the eunuch.’
‘Give him the slip! Go on, it’ll be a riot.’
Bettina leaned against the sink in a way she hoped looked casually elegant. ‘I suppose I could just bring him. Your auntie might fancy a bit.’
Margo laughed into her hands, her arms squishing her breasts together so that they resembled two netballs poking out of a sack. ‘I forgot how funny you are!’ Her face creased with affected fondness, to patronising effect, and she grabbed Bettina’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. ‘I’m so glad I didn’t snub you like I was intending to, you’re so very dear to me, despite everything.’
Bettina nodded. The space between their bodies felt charged. She wanted to grab her and kiss her, and the urge was so strong she began to blink wildly.
Margo peeled her long velvet glove from her left arm. ‘If you come tonight I can tell you all about this,’ she said, showing off the huge diamond on her plump doll’s finger.
Bettina’s mouth stretched into a ghastly parody of a smile, her cheeks like dead flesh with an electric current running through it. ‘Crikey, that’s a dazzler.’
Bart tossed the flowers on the floor. He looked at them, nostrils flaring, jaw flexing. Carnations and roses. He picked them back up and thrashed them against the dressing-room table, lopping their heads off. Scraps of orange and scarlet petals flew around like confetti, fucking confetti – oh, the poetry of it! He thrashed and thrashed until his fist held only stems, then he sat down, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes so that everything became a throbbing, womb-like miasma behind the lids.
A knock at the door.
He snapped his head up and stared into the mirror. ‘What?’
‘A visitor,’ came the muted reply.
‘Who?’ His face as he spat the word – petulant and swollen-eyed. A brat who does not want to eat his liver. It was going to be Keith, hoping to start something. One last grope for the road before he fucked off to his silly, deluded fiancée – well, she was in for a surprise; if he mustered even half a cock-stand for her on the wedding night, it would be an actual miracle. The man could put on a good show with his manly back-slaps but behind dressing-room doors he turned into a shameless cocksucker, and oh God, he was so good at sucking cock, and so handsome it was all Bart could do to stop himself turning into a puddle at the sight of him thrusting his sword at Tybalt with his round little arse flexing beneath the tights, and honestly, it wasn’t the getting-married part that Bart had a problem with – no, it was being strung along with googly love-eyes and passionate promises. It was all so unnecessary. If the man had simply said outright, ‘Listen, I’m getting married soon but how about a bit of no-strings fun during rehearsals?’ then things wouldn’t have escalated and Bart wouldn’t now be left feeling betrayed and foolish, breaking his heart over a … over a … there was just no need for it.
He could shove his guilty flowers up his rectum.
‘Sir?’ came the voice again.
‘What?’
‘Sir, you have a visitor. A Miss Wyn Thomas, sir.’
‘Let her in, let her in.’
In she came, looking around the room with polite expectation, wearing a cream fur cape over an emerald gown, her hair fashioned into a crimped bob – looking gorgeous, in other words. She was exactly who he needed right now – no one else would do.
‘What did those poor flowers ever do to you?’ she said, seeing the mess.
‘I didn’t deserve them! I was awful!’
Bettina rolled her eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake, you silly neurotic boy, you were simply marvellous! You had three ovations.’ She shook her head. ‘I shan’t waste my breath; I know what you’re like. And by the way, it was me who sent them. You’re welcome.’
‘You? Oh, I’m so sorry, darling. It’s just I fluffed my line!’
‘Tosh! If you did, then nobody noticed. I didn’t notice.’
‘Horseshit.’ He had indeed fluffed it. Because of that stupid cocksucker, giving him enigmatic looks from across the stage.
‘Stop over-analysing everything.’ She sat in his seat. ‘Well, aren’t you going to give me a cigarette?’
He took his cigarette box out of his pocket and gave her one, lighting it. ‘Truly, I was good?’
‘Truly.’
‘I’ll find out in the newspapers anyway, so you might as well tell me.’
Another eye-roll. ‘This is getting boring. Guess who I saw in the ladies’ earlier?’
He shrugged.
‘Margo. She thought you were brilliant too, by the way, et cetera et cetera. She’s getting married, Bart. I feel just wretched.’ She saw the champagne sticking out of the ice bucket. ‘Can I have some please?’
‘Of course.’ He took the bottle and prised the cork out slowly. How bizarre that Bettina was going through the exact same hell as him. It would be comforting to be able to share his pain with her – that’s what pals did. Perhaps he should? Right now. Well, why not? He poured the drink into two flutes and they each turned to creamy pearl foam. No, he couldn’t. She’d be disgusted. He felt very strongly that she’d be disgusted, even with her own proclivities. The churning deeps of her mind would forever be a hoard for suppressed images of cocks sliding into arseholes. It all came back to cocks in arseholes in the end. No one could ever stretch themselves to imagine that love might factor into it. Cocks and arseholes – the stars of the show! ‘Why do you feel wretched?’ he said.
‘Don’t feign innocence. Ugh, I hate it. And I hate her. It’s probably that Jasper shitbag she used to talk about. She wants me to meet her at Galliano’s but I shan’t be going now.’
He was waiting for the foam to settle before topping up. ‘How was your dinner date? What was his name? Harold something?’
She flipped back her head and let out a small scream. ‘Argh, I hate it, Bart. He’s just like the others. He’s outside now, in the foyer, waiting for me. He was talking to the valet about steamship propellers when I left him. Can you imagine? God. My father must be snickering to himself about it. Why can’t I have dinner with just one tasty man?’
He passed her a full glass and took a sip from his own. ‘I think you’d rather a tasty woman.’
‘Shut up, Bart. I won’t be defined by just one regretful incident.’
‘Regretful? I do seem to recall you saying that you enjoyed it.’
‘Did I say that?’
He nodded.
‘I hate it when people remember what I’ve said.’
‘I think you should go to this dinner. Size up the rival.’
She shook her head and looked darkly into her glass. ‘I don’t want to see her ever again.’ She lapsed into thoughtful silence, her shoulders sagging and her fingers fidgeting with the stem. Then she abruptly downed the rest of her drink and stood up. ‘I’d better get back to my Prince Charming before he sends the valet to sleep.’ She grabbed his face, one hand on each cheek, and pulled it down to plant a kiss on his forehead. ‘You really were brilliant out there. You have a shining career ahead of you, if you wish to continue this petty rebellion against your mother.’
She still had hold of his face. He could see lipstick on her teeth. ‘Oh, she can’t complain too much,’ he said. ‘It’s not as though I’m juggling fish in an East End music hall. “O O O, I’m Shakespehearian, darling. So elegant, so intelligent.”’ He placed his hands over her hands, closing his eyes like a petted cat. He so wanted to tell her everything. His heart was smashed to pieces.
She left and he poured himself another glass. Her scent stayed in the room, a lovely jasmine fragrance that he knew she sprayed liberally on her cleavage.
Another knock at the door.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s me.’ Keith.
Bart opened the door, drink in hand.
Keith smiled nervously. ‘Can I come in?’
‘No. Go home to your fiancée if you want your dick sucked.’ And he slammed the door shut.
The next night, he knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the darkened auditorium. Actors and actresses were milling about half dressed in front of the stage when normally they’d be in their dressing rooms by now, putting on make-up, whining about the director, or – as in the case of old Spencer Hughes, who played the friar – shovelling stimulants up their noses. Tybalt was smoking a cigarette, his codpiece hanging half fastened and the buttons of his blouse undone. Agatha Chalmers, who played Lady Capulet, was sitting on the edge of the stage with her legs dangling childishly and her head jerking around like that of a nervous ostrich. She was dressed in a velvet cobalt-blue dress, the corset loose, and had a dowdy grey winter coat draped over her shoulders. Bart tapped her on the ankle to get her attention. ‘What’s going on, love?’
She leaned down in a conspiratorial manner, her eyes darting left and right, and said, ‘Keith’s been arrested.’
‘Arrested? What in the world for?’
‘You’ll never guess,’ she said, eyes boggling out of her head.
From this angle he could see up her nose – two red caves. ‘I have no intention of guessing. Spit it out, will you.’
She pulled a haughty, offended look. ‘I see, the good sir does not appreciate a build-up. Well, fair enough. Only, I am an actress with a flair for dramatic tension.’
You bloody well are not, you silly asinine whore, he thought. ‘Agatha. Please.’
‘As you like it. He was arrested last night for – actually, I can’t remember the precise terminology for the offence, but it was the same thing that did for Oscar Wilde.’
Bart felt the skin on his face tightening. ‘Gross indecency.’
‘That’s the one,’ she said, nodding with prim lips. She leaned closer and cupped a hand to the side of her mouth. ‘Sodomy,’ she whispered. ‘Up the bum and all that.’ He could see flecks of green caught in her big yellow mule teeth. ‘He was caught in the bushes of Hyde Park. Only two days till his wedding day, too. I just can’t imagine what that poor girl is going through, though let’s be honest – anyone can see the man’s not a regular sort, so perhaps she should take better care choosing husbands in the future.’ Agatha leaned back, satisfied with herself, took a tin of humbugs out of her coat pocket and popped one into her mouth. ‘An hour till curtains and we’ve got Romeo and Juliet without a Romeo and the understudy is throwing up his lunch in the men’s lav. So it’s safe to say we’re buggered.’ A pause. ‘Though not as much as Keith, I dare say.’ And she cackled – you could never call it a laugh, it was certainly a cackle – her caruncled old turkey throat shivering and her mouth flung open with the humbug perched moistly on her tongue.
‘Bloody choke,’ he whispered, walking away.