The first person Helena saw when she arrived at the theatre was Miranda. She was waiting alone in the red and gold foyer, standing at the foot of the flaring, red-carpeted staircase, calmly reading the New Law Journal and apparently quite at ease.
‘Don’t look so horrified,’ she said as she looked up from the magazine and saw her daughter’s expression. ‘Your stepmother invited me herself. I’m here legitimately.’
‘Goodness!’ said Helena gracelessly. ‘I mean, how very nice!’
Miranda laughed and bent down to tuck the magazine into the briefcase at her feet. ‘Yes, isn’t it? When I got back from court today, my clerk handed me an envelope Irene had apparently delivered herself with a charming note inviting me tonight and a ticket. She even said that I was welcome to come to the dinner that you and Ivo have arranged for her afterwards.’
Helena did not think that her expression had changed, but Miranda quickly said: ‘Don’t worry. I won’t go that far. And I won’t embarrass you, I promise.’
Helena shook her head. ‘You couldn’t. If I looked worried, it’s only that I’m anxious Irene shouldn’t have any extra stress tonight. So much hangs on this evening for her that I know she’s likely to be in a great state. That’s all. It’s not – really – that I want to keep you out of anything. Honestly.’
‘I know. I was teasing you. You’re looking very lovely tonight. I’m pr—’
‘Thank you,’ said Helena before Miranda could finish the word. She was wearing the clothes she had chosen for the dinner Irene and Fin had given for Geoffrey Duxford. ‘So are you.’
Miranda was always well dressed, but that evening she looked even more striking than usual. She was wearing a knee-length black dress that had been modelled on a man’s dinner jacket. It was superbly cut and showed off all the delicacy of bone and feature that Helena had inherited from her. Around her neck, hanging between the severe silk revers of the dress, was a flamboyant gold pendant enamelled in emerald and scarlet with a large baroque pearl hanging from it. She looked rich and successful but delicately restrained. Helena hoped very much that Irene would not take the restraint as a comment on her own much bolder style.
When Irene arrived she looked so spectacular that it seemed unlikely that anyone else’s appearance could worry her at all. Her dress was made of a cloth that looked like running water with the setting sun reflected on it. Peering more closely, Helena realized that it was silk that had been treated in some way that made it almost as supple as jersey and yet not nearly as clinging. Of a colour somewhere between copper and gold, it made the most of Irene’s splendid shoulders and breasts and then diverged from her body to flow past her waist.
When she saw Helena, Irene opened her arms. Helena kissed her and was hugged. She hoped that if Miranda could see what was happening, she would not mind too much.
‘That’s a wonderful dress,’ Helena said when Irene had let her go. ‘Did you have it specially made?’
‘Yes. I think it’s worked. Even Fin likes it, if you can believe that. And they promised me that this sort of silk won’t scrunkle up and crease when I sit in it, so it should still look all right in the interval, which is important. How are you, Helena?’
‘I’m fine. You?’
‘Hanging on. I tried to go backstage to wish them all broken legs and whatever else theatrical superstition allows, but Richard sent me away.’
‘That seems pretty high-handed. Did you mind?’
Irene laughed, but she did not sound amused. ‘He said that one look at my wild eyes and chewed lips would make them all lose whatever confidence they’ve managed to scrape together and that I was to get away quick before any of them saw me.’
‘I’m sure it’ll go well,’ said Helena, trying to answer the real things that Irene had not managed to say. ‘You told me you were pleased with the previews – and that Richard was; a man like him would never pretend about something as important as that. They must have been good.’
‘To be perfectly frank, I think Richard would say anything at this stage if he thought it might avert disaster.’
‘Don’t talk about disaster.’ For once Helena had no fear of it herself and added confidently, ‘It’s not allowed.’
‘Isn’t it? It seems the only thing to talk about,’ said Irene, crossing her fingers and wishing that she could dredge up some of the old fiery anger to carry her through. The trouble was, there did not seem to be anyone with whom she could be angry. ‘You know, I never realized it was going to be like this. I thought much the worst part would be writing the wretched thing. But this is torture. I don’t know how long I can hang on.’
‘You’ll manage.’ Helena stood up on her toes to kiss Irene’s cheek. ‘You’re brave and tough, and you look gorgeous.’
‘Oh, Helena, what would I do without you?’
‘Plenty. Oh, goody, there’s Jane,’ said Helena, waving at her sister, who had walked through the main doors beside Fin.
Helena kissed them both and then heard Irene’s voice saying: ‘Miranda. How good of you to come this evening. It means a lot.’
Helena turned to watch them. Irene towered over Miranda, who seemed quite untroubled by her supplanter. There was no sign of the hatred she had once admitted.
‘It’s exceptionally kind of you to have invited me, Irene,’ she said, offering her hand. Irene took it, but she could not make herself hold it for long. ‘This is my daughter,’ she said, urgently beckoning Jane forward. Fin waited beside Helena.
‘How do you do?’ said Miranda, concentrating on Jane and never once looking at Fin.
Knowing that they must have discussed Irene and the play many times in the past year, Helena admired both her parents for leaving all the initiative with Irene, but at the same time she was angry with them both for adding such constraint to Irene’s most important evening. Helena turned her back and asked her father about his current trial, which had always been the easiest way to make him talk.
When Ivo appeared everyone’s embarrassment seemed to fade away. He looked as relaxed as ever and was seductively affectionate towards his whole family, even Miranda, whom he treated as though she were a particularly beloved aunt. When Helena looked to see how Irene was taking that, she was relieved to see that Irene looked merely amused. A few minutes later Mike appeared, and Helena herself began to relax.
He was quickly followed by a whole group of people who were obviously well known to Irene. Helena did her best to be polite to everyone who was introduced to her, in case they were members of the press or the sort of opinion-formers who could help the play, but she would have much preferred to stay in a corner with Mike or even her mother.
She had worked her way round the foyer by the time the bell rang to summon everyone to the auditorium and she was standing next to Irene again.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she whispered as she felt Irene shudder.
Irene turned for a moment, apparently unaware of who had spoken. Seeing Helena, she sighed.
‘I wish it was over.’
‘I know. But we must go in now and you must look confident. Can you smile? Great. Well done! Here’s Fin. Are you taking her in?’
‘Naturally.’ Fin offered his arm to Irene in a more flamboyant gesture than Helena would have expected. Irene squared her shoulders, arranged her face and strode forward beside him.
‘I gather you’re sitting between me and Mike,’ said Miranda from behind Helena.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s gone ahead to buy programmes. He said he’d see us there. I like him, you know, very much.’
‘Good. I’m sorry I haven’t ever …’
‘Ssh. I know why you didn’t. Don’t worry about it. This evening must be quite a strain for you. Don’t think I don’t realize how difficult it is to amalgamate the different parts of your life. I’m glad to be here, and very glad to have made his acquaintance. I don’t need anything else.’
‘It must make me seem very mean,’ said Helena, disliking the ferment of emotion that spoiled the picture she wanted to have of herself, a picture of sense rather than sensibility, of calm and self-knowledge, of someone who dealt kindly and efficiently with other people’s needs rather than being at the mercy of her own.
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Miranda settled herself in her seat. ‘Just wary. And I’ve already told you that I understand your wariness; I share it all. Now, what’s this play about?’
Thinking of Irene’s inarticulate description, Helena passed on as much as she could remember and was relieved when Mike edged into the row carrying the programmes. He gave one to Miranda and then slid past them both to his own seat. Miranda opened her programme, freeing Helena, who turned at once to Mike.
‘How was the day?’
‘Not bad. Although I kept being distracted by my memories of how sweet you looked tucked up under your duvet this morning,’ he said.
The house lights dimmed before Helena could answer, but she leaned towards him and let her shoulder touch his. There was a prolonged rustle as people dropped programmes in their laps and crossed or uncrossed their legs. As the last of the lights turned orange and faded into nothing, Helena looked along the row and caught sight of Irene’s face. It looked so defenceless that she longed to leap into her seat and beseech the audience to be fair and to do their best to like what they were about to see. She sat still with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. Mike dropped one of his over them in a brief but comforting gesture of reassurance.
Once the first scene had got under way, Helena realized how little she had understood of Irene’s explanation of the play. It seemed to be about a woman, an elegant, unhappy middle-aged woman, who was stuck in a fogbound airport with a mountain of baggage that was obviously important but also a dreadful nuisance to her. Waiting for the announcement of her flight, checking that her bags and cases were all still there and all still locked, she fell into conversation with another passenger, gradually telling him about her journey.
It had started some time ago in the States and was to end in Amsterdam, if she could ever get there. All sorts of things had delayed her before the fog had closed the airport and she was beginning to despair of ever reaching her destination.
The scene changed then to Amsterdam itself, to a room in a house beside a canal, empty except for a woman. She seemed very young, still almost a schoolgirl. From what Irene had told her, Helena knew that the girl and the much older woman were the same person, and she wondered how quickly the rest of the audience would catch on.
Helena soon understood that the girl was living in Amsterdam at the end of the Second World War. She had spent the war itself running errands for the resistance and putting herself and her family at tremendous risk, but they had all survived. The Allies had liberated the city only three days before the unconditional surrender of all the German forces was confirmed.
The citizens of Amsterdam ought to have been rewarded for the years of terror with peace and plenty, but they were almost starving.
Into the cold, miserable world came a charismatic American officer. Much older than Maria, he appeared like a dream conjured up by her need. He was generous, attentive and full of admiration for the courage she had shown during the occupation.
When the scene changed once more to the airport lounge, full of angry, tired, hungry people and the older Maria sitting beside her baggage, Helena began to understand what was going to happen. She glanced at her father to see whether he, too, understood what Irene had been doing. He looked pleasantly attentive but quite untroubled.
After the interval the scenes alternated between the past and the present. The older Maria talked of the exile in which she had been living for forty years while her younger self was tempted by the ease and plenty her American offered her. Along with the rest of the audience, Helena could see that Maria was making herself believe that she had fallen in love because that was the only way she could accept the escape her American was offering her. At last, just after the fog had lifted from the airport allowing the elder Maria to continue her journey, her younger self could be seen agreeing to marry her lover and follow him to the States.
Helena found herself gripping her hands together again as the curtain rose for the final scene. Maria was standing at the side of the stage with all her baggage beside her, staring at the house where she had once lived. She took a step towards the bridge that led over the canal to the house itself and was instantly set upon by a gang of unidentifiable young tourists. As they hit and kicked her, stripped her of all her jewellery and flung her handbag into the canal, her younger self emerged from the house arm in arm with the American and walked away from it without a backward look.
Bruised and bleeding the older woman eventually dragged herself across the bridge, opened the door of the house and walked in to find it absolutely empty. The rest of the stage darkened and bright light flooded the house. The triumphant music of Dvorak’s symphony ‘From the New World’filled the theatre.
When the final curtain fell, taking with it the tension that had kept the audience quite still for the past half hour, a splatter of clapping broke out, punctuated with several suspicious sniffs and coughings. The clapping quickened and became louder until it was an undifferentiated roar of approval.
Feeling an irritated movement from Miranda at her left, Helena looked sideways and saw her brushing one slender finger under the lashes of her lower eyelid. Helena herself was not at all sure how she felt. Perhaps the strongest emotion was surprise. It was not because the deceptively simple play seemed so competent. She had known that a man of Richard Orleton’s reputation would never have taken on one that was not well written, or indeed produced it in any way that was not supremely professional. But the cleverness of the staging, of the dialogue, and of the way the very few characters had taken the audience into their emotions without explaining anything seemed quite unexpected.
It had all looked wonderful, too, and the girl had been entrancing in her excited yearning for an easier life and in her almost convincing love for her much older, richer suitor. The older actress had managed her part well, too. It would have been easy, Helena could see, to have made her appear bitter and unsympathetic. Instead her mixture of self-control and regret, her frequently expressed gratitude to the man who had both saved her and stolen her life, gave her a nearly tragic status.
Helena leaned forward so that she could look along the row of clapping friends and relations, trying to catch Irene’s eye. When her stepmother did look at her, Helena smiled as widely as she could and gestured with both thumbs rigidly upwards. Irene raised her eyebrows. Helena nodded vigorously. Irene blushed lightly, smiled, and sat back in her chair, moving out of Helena’s sight.
‘Very instructive,’ murmured Miranda, just as Mike was leaning towards Helena to say: ‘I think that was pretty impressive. A woman of many talents, your stepmother.’
‘She is, isn’t she? I’m glad you approve.’
‘Yes. But I wonder what your father thinks of it. She makes it jolly clear that …’
‘Shh,’ said Helena. ‘I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that.’
The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Helena. With all Irene’s other guests, she went backstage to meet and congratulate the actors, and later emerged into the street to help find enough taxis to transport the family and close friends to the restaurant she and Ivo had chosen. They had debated whether to invite the cast to join them and had eventually consulted Irene. After some discussion with Richard, who had already arranged a dinner for everyone connected with the play after the first of the previews, Irene had decided that the actors would be happier on their own. She was planning to give a party specifically for them later in the week.
Miranda, however, had eventually accepted the invitation to join the rest of them for dinner and was sitting between Richard Orleton and Ivo with Helena opposite her between Fin and Mike. Irene had taken the head of the table and radiated triumphant happiness. Miranda looked smaller and paler and more severe as dinner progressed. Helena ate too much, heard too much noise, and felt her waistband tighten uncomfortably as a sharpening sensation of emotional indigestion clawed at her insides.
Mike left before coffee was served, apologizing to Irene and explaining that he had a breakfast meeting out of London early the following morning and had to get to bed in good time. When he had gone, Helena turned to her father and asked what he had thought of the play.
‘Rather duller than I had expected, I’m afraid,’ he said very quietly so that Irene could not hear, ‘but I was glad to see that so many people enjoyed it. And it looked pretty enough. That designer fellow had got Amsterdam to a T, I thought, as well as the beastly squalor of an airport waiting room.’
‘Dull?’ echoed Helena, wanting to say: but didn’t you see what she meant?
‘I’m afraid so.’ He smiled at her. ‘But then I like rather more going on in plays than a middle-aged woman moaning.’
Outraged but not surprised by his lack of perception, Helena was about to start explaining to him just exactly what the play had been about when he added: ‘You’re looking quite well. Does it still satisfy you, the carpentry?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She ignored the implied insult to her and to her work with the ease of experience. ‘And it’s increasingly profitable, too.’
‘I’m glad of that.’ Fin looked at her and for a moment she thought she could detect affection, even warmth, in him. ‘Your mother’s rather proud of you, you know. I’m glad you’re seeing something of her these days.’
At that moment Miranda got to her feet, distracting both of them, and said: ‘Irene, I had better go, too. I have a brief to read tonight. Thank you for letting me come. It’s been most … instructive.’
‘I’m glad. Would you be angelic and see Helena home for me?
I don’t trust her to take a taxi and I don’t want her walking at this time of night dressed up like a Christmas tree.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. I’ll be delighted to take her,’ said Miranda, sounding polite rather than warm.
Helena was about to protest that she was quite capable of getting herself home and did not need to be sent to bed like a child, but then she caught her mother’s eye and realized that there had been more to Irene’s request than anxiety about her safety. Wanting to get both herself and Miranda out of the restaurant before anyone said anything they might regret, Helena scrambled up from her chair, tripping over her handbag, and went to the head of the table to kiss Irene and compliment her once again.
Irene put up a hand to cup her face and smiled with absolute trust and unshadowed love.
‘Promise me you won’t walk tonight, Helena. It’s not safe.’
‘No, all right. We’ll share a cab. It was a wonderful evening, and I think the play’s a triumph. I hope the reviews will be good.’
‘They will be,’ said a confident male voice.
Helena looked up and saw Richard Orleton nodding to her from his position on Irene’s right.
‘How can you tell?’ asked Miranda, who was standing holding on to the back of her chair.
‘The way the critics look as they start to scribble the outline of their reviews during the interval. I’ve watched them too often to be mistaken. All the omens are good. And it won’t be long now before we get the proof.’
‘I am glad.’
Helena had a word with Ivo about the best way to deal with the bill, and he amazed her by saying that their father had decided to pay for everything himself. Helena just looked at him. Ivo’s eyes took on a devilish glint as he smiled and nodded.
‘I know, but don’t look too surprised. It’s not polite. Go on home. You look knackered. I’ll deal with anything that crops up and ring you in the morning to report.’
Helena hoped she had said enough to all the people she should have acknowledged and left the noisy restaurant with a sense of relief.
‘I know you don’t need my help getting home,’ said Miranda as the door closed behind them, ‘but shall we share a taxi? After all, it’s the same direction for both of us. He can drop me off first and carry on to Clerkenwell.’
‘Why not? Did you mind that? The instruction to see me home, I mean.’
‘No. That, I thought, was quite touching.’
As Helena looked round in surprise at the sarcastic tone of voice, Miranda hurriedly added: ‘I must say that I didn’t much like that director of hers.’
‘Richard Orleton? No, nor did I,’ said Helena. She was not going to pass on any of Irene’s confidences, but she was not averse to a little frank discussion of a man she had found both arrogant and unattractive. ‘And I thought his behaviour to that poor little actress was vile. Talk about possessiveness!’
‘And criticism,’ agreed Miranda, signalling to a taxi that still had its orange light glowing. ‘If it hadn’t been for your Mike’s tactful intervention, I think she might even have burst into tears. He really does seem like a good man.’
‘Only seems?’
Miranda gave a short laugh. ‘I haven’t enough evidence to put it more strongly than that. I liked what I’ve seen of him, but I know nothing about him. I didn’t even know his name until this evening. “Seems” is as far as I can safely go.’
‘And now that you do know his name, will you be checking out the ownership of his house?’ Helena said, shocked to hear how sharp she sounded, but unable to help it.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What about?’
‘I’m not sure except that it sounds as though you are very angry with me for what I told you about Ivo.’
‘Don’t you want to know why?’
‘Only if you want to tell me.’
Helena sighed. ‘Why is it that whenever we meet and are getting on particularly well everything degenerates into argument? Is it you or is it me?’
‘I wasn’t aware that we did always argue,’ said Miranda, sounding as though she had never given in to any kind of emotion in her life.
‘Nearly always when it’s going extra well, not otherwise,’ Helena said, looking away from her mother. She was hugely relieved to see that they were approaching John Street. ‘Here we are.’
Miranda opened her handbag and took out a twenty-pound note.
‘No, no. I’m paying for this,’ said Helena, trying to smile. ‘After all, as you pointed out, your house is on my route home, and I would have taken a cab this way in any case. Thank you for coming this evening.’
‘I’m not sure that it was an unqualified success,’ said Miranda, still in the same emotionless voice. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night.’ Helena hoped that she did not sound as sulkily childish as she felt. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Yes. Good. Sleep well.’
For the rest of the short drive to Clerkenwell, Helena cursed herself for her clumsiness, for her irritability, for her lack of generosity to her mother, who, she was almost sure, was doing everything she could to establish friendly relations between them.
Back in the house, she forced herself to telephone Miranda and when she answered said directly: ‘I am sorry I was so unpleasant just now. Will you try to ignore it?’
‘Yes,’ said Miranda, sounding once again like a woman who might occasionally feel things. ‘I probably invited it, although I hadn’t meant to. The play stirred me up rather.’
‘Did it? I mean, why?’
There was a short laugh that sounded anything but amused. ‘It seemed to me that your devoted and beloved stepmother was telling me that since I had run away from you and Fin all those years ago out of selfishness and cowardice, I was not to think that there was anything left for me in either of your lives, and so I had better keep out of the way.’
‘I don’t think that’s what she meant at all,’ said Helena in a rush. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. No, that’s not quite what I mean either. I thought that she was exploring her own fury with Fin for having offered her security when she needed it and thought she’d never get it.’
‘Why on earth should that make her angry?’
‘Because it was a temptation she was too young and ignorant to resist, but she didn’t understand at the time how much it would cost her, you know, that she was selling her life in a way. Didn’t you see that at all? It seemed really clear to me. And then when she tried to get back to the life she should have gone on living, first of all she was stopped by her family’s needs and then by the mugging (I’m not quite sure what, if anything, that mirrors in Irene’s life), and then when she did finally get back she found that there was nothing there for her after all.’
Remembering that Irene had written the play before she had gone to Amsterdam with Richard and discovered the emptiness of all her fantasies about him and what his love might have done for her, Helena had a sudden doubt about her own interpretation.
‘That sounds quite plausible,’ said Miranda. ‘But in that case why the triumphant music and the floods of light? I took that to be a yah-boo-sucks message specifically directed at me.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Helena took a moment to think. ‘She’d always given me the impression that it was a sad play. I wonder if you could be right? No, I’m sure you’re not. Why should Irene do something like that? That would be spiteful and she’s never been that. Angry often, but never spiteful. Honestly, that wouldn’t be like her at all. Perhaps the triumph came from the freedom. I mean, if there’s nothing for you in the past, nothing to hold you back there, you become free to go forward. That would be a reason to be pretty triumphant, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’ll take your word for it. I suppose that I have got into the habit of seeing several of her actions as directed at me. Perhaps I’ve been more self-centred than I realized.’
‘Actions,’ said Helena, suddenly worried. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s late, you’re tired and I genuinely do have a brief I must read. Good night, my dear. Sleep well. And try not
to worry too much. It never does any good. And it wreaks havoc
with the complexion.’