and snapped on the light. She was home again. Safe and secure. Here nothing could harm her.
Katharine always went to the threatre several hours before first curtain call. She needed this time to relax, to empty her head of extraneous matters, to repose, to concentrate and to psyche herself into the part of Helen of Troy. This afternoon she was earlier than usual, but she welcomed the chance to be alone, to think and plan her strategy for the next few days. She still had a lot to achieve before the screen test. After her lunch with Francesca, she had debated whether to go back to her flat, and then decided against it, realizing it was a waste of energy to return to Lennox Gardens for only an hour at the most. Instead, she had strolled down Piccadilly, stopped at Hatchards to buy several books, and then made her way to the Haymarket. She had attempted to call Victor Mason from a telephone booth, to give him Estelle’s information about Confidential. To her frustration he was not at the hotel, and so she had left a cryptic message, adding that she would call again later.
Now, as she took off her cape, her skirt and her sweater, she concentrated on the supper she had dreamed up on the spur of the moment at the Arlington Club. She was quite positive Victor would not object, since he relied on her for much of his social life, and he had already intimated he wanted to take her to dinner with Francesca on Sunday night. So he’ll give a small party instead, she thought, slipping into her towelling robe and sitting down on the couch to pull off her boots. After she had carefully put all her clothes away in the wardrobe, she found a small note pad and pencil, and moved to the dressing table to make a tentative guest list. There would be Victor. And Nicholas Latimer. Naturally, she thought with a small caustic smile. And Francesca, Estelle and herself. She needed at least three more people, perhaps even five, to make up an entertaining group. Well, Kim and the Earl were out, as they were returning to Yorkshire on Sunday afternoon. She paused, the pencil poised in mid-air, considering various friends who would be suitable to include. The Shand-Elliots were possibilities if…
There was a light tapping on the dressing room door, and she looked at it in surprise. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘It’s me, Katharine. Norman,’ Terry’s dresser said.
‘Oh, come in, love,’ she exclaimed, smiling broadly as Norman’s head appeared around the door. But the smile fled when she saw his face. Norman, usually breezy, jovial and as bright-eyed as a chirpy Cockney sparrow, wore a dour expression and distress was mirrored in his light brown eyes. Katharine saw immediately that he was agitated. He entered the dressing room with unusual swiftness and closed the door almost furtively. He leaned against it, his body taut, his nervousness spilling out of him.
‘Norman, whatever’s wrong?’ Katharine cried, straightening up in the chair, her eyes fixed on him. ‘You look terribly upset.’
He nodded, his movements jerky. ‘I am. And thank God I’ve found you. I’ve been ‘phoning your flat for ages. I even ran over there and pushed a note through your letter box. Then I decided to come to the theatre, just on the off-chance you might be here.’
‘But Norman, tell me what’s wrong!’ Katharine demanded impatiently, her voice more high pitched than usual. She tensed, and unexpectedly felt a rush of real fear as she observed his anxiety increasing.
‘Ssssh! Not so loud,’ Norman warned. ‘It’s Terry. He’s in real trouble, and I need your help, Katharine. Now.’
‘Trouble,’ Katharine repeated, keeping her voice low. ‘What kind of trouble?’ Her eyes were wide with apprehension, for Norman’s acute distress was being transmitted more forcibly than ever.
‘Well, for one thing, he’s dead bloody drunk. Three sheets to the wind,’ he told her in a voice that was practically inaudible. ‘Can you get dressed and come with me to Albany? I’ll fill you in on the way there.’
‘Yes, love,’ Katharine said, rising at once. She wrenched her clothes out of the wardrobe, dashed behind the screen and was dressed within a few seconds. She emerged and said, ‘I just have to get my boots, then I’m ready.’ Seating herself on the couch she began to pull them on.
Looking up, her eyes questioning, she stated: ‘Terry’s insisting on going on tonight, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. The bloody fool,’ Norman responded with a tight grimace. ‘And he mustn’t. At least not in his present condition.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost four o’clock. We’ve got three hours to sober him up. If we can’t, then I’ll have to try and restrain him somehow, and his understudy will have to play tonight.’ Norman’s eyes remained on her face and he regarded her carefully. After a second, he said with a worried frown, ‘If Terry does go on, it’ll be quite a burden for you, Katharine. I’m afraid the whole play will be on your shoulders. And Terry’s going to need every bit of help you can give him. You’ll have to cue him, lead him, cover up for him, and literally carry him through his performance.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It won’t be easy, Katharine. It’s going to take all your strength and ability and ingenuity to camouflage his disabilities from the audience.’
Katharine’s heart sank but she returned Norman’s steady gaze with one equally level. Although her face was grave, the tone she adopted was light and cheerful. ‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying, Norman. But we’ll think about that eventuality later. Come on,’ she cried. ‘Let’s go!’
Nicholas Latimer, being the consummate novelist, often elected to play the spectator. He sat back, enveloped in silence, and listened and watched and stored everything away in the computer that was his mind, for future reference and use in his work. Once, a few years ago, a female acquaintance had said she hated having writers as friends, because, as she stringently pointed out, ‘They steal everything about you, and recycle it in their books.’ He had exploded with laughter at the time, but now he suddenly recalled her comments, and he said to himself: she was right.
At this moment he was once again the spectator, and he knew he was going to revel in the scene which was on the verge of being enacted before him. And naturally he would hoard it away, and push it into the typewriter when he needed it. The protagonists were fascinating opposites, which added to the drama – Victor Mason and Mike Lazarus. And they were poised like gladiators about to do battle, to fight to the death. Nick smiled at his own rather melodramatic analogy. On the other hand, much was at stake, and if the daggers were not exactly drawn, they were sheathed and waiting, figuratively speaking, of course.
Instinctively, he knew Victor would emerge the … victor. He smiled again at his childish game but he couldn’t help himself. Words were his drug, and old habits were hard to break. Victor had had the upper hand before they had met Lazarus. Not that Lazarus realized this, being ignorant of the meeting with Helene Vernaud and thus unaware that she had passed on a certain amount of crucial information. Lazarus most probably thought he had the upper hand, especially since it was the hand which held the chequebook.
Nick had been taken aback when Victor had told him they were meeting Lazarus in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel. For tea. Good God, for tea! When he had questioned Victor about this somewhat weird location, Victor had laughed dryly and remarked: ‘Wasn’t it Napoleon who said that when he was about to do battle with the enemy, he liked to select the location and the time for his preference? He believed it gave him the advantage. So do I.’
Nick had nodded, constantly amazed at Victor’s esoteric knowledge, and said, ‘Yes, it was Napoleon. But why a public place, kid?’ Another dry chuckle from Victor, who had gone on to explain, ‘When we reach an impasse, as we undoubtedly will, I don’t want
