her eyes shining. ‘And there are those marvellous lines about their souls. I can almost quote it to you verbatim. Cathy says, “He shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as different as moonbeam from lightning, as frost from fire.” Of course I know it, and very well, Katharine. And you’re right. It is dramatic and emotional.’
Katharine had observed Francesca’s enthusiasm, her growing interest, and now she seized the moment. She said, ‘If you look at that particular chapter in the book again, and study it, you’ll see there’s enough dialogue between Nelly and Cathy to create a good thirty-minute scene, which is all I need for the screen test. Listen, Francesca, I know you can do it, and in a very short time. I also thought it would be a change of pace for you, and would get you away from your research for a day or two. Oh please, do say yes,’ she cajoled. She gazed at Francesca, her expression pleading, then finished, ‘I need you, I really do. Please, won’t you give it a stab? The test is so important to me.’ Katharine’s eyes did not leave Francesca’s face.
Francesca bit her lip, unsure of herself. But she did want to help Katharine, to please her, and so she swallowed her uncertainty. ‘Well, all right,’ she said. ‘If you think I can do it, then I’ll give it a try.’
‘Oh, thank you, Francesca darling! Thank you. I’m so grateful,’ Katharine cried.
‘It might not be right, you know, not exactly what you want, but I promise I’ll do my very best. And you’ll have to tell me how many pages you need, where I should begin and end the scene. I will need a little guidance.’
‘I’ll help you. In fact, I can explain some things over lunch. You won’t find it difficult, because it is all there in the book,’ Katharine assured her.
Francesca nodded and stared at her plate. When she lifted her head she looked slightly perplexed. ‘You seem to have a lot of confidence in me, Katharine. Why?’
Katharine thought for a second, and then she smiled. ‘Instinct,’ she replied.
As Katharine approached the St James’s Theatre, she felt a quickening inside, and her heart beat a little faster, excitement tingling through her in short sharp waves. She always experienced these feelings when she went to work, and never once had they diminished or lessened. The thrill, the anticipation and the expectation mingled to bring a spring to her step, a blithe smile of eagerness to her face, and she increased her pace, hurrying down the alley to the stage door.
For as long as she could remember, the theatre for her had been a place of refuge and her happiest moments had been spent on a stage. When she was ten years old she had appeared in a nativity play at the convent in Chicago, and ever since that time she had known she would become an actress, for her destiny had been truly sealed that day. It was the only life she could bear to live, the only one which had any real meaning, and purpose, to her. In a sense, the magical unreality of the stage was her only reality. She found escape in her roles, bringing to them such belief and intensity, she literally became the characters she played. And it was this extraordinary commitment, total and unwavering, that gave her portrayals the absolute ring of dramatic truth, and was perhaps one of her greatest strengths as an actress. She never failed to touch, to move, and perhaps, more importantly, to convince. Even as a student, her interpretations of classical parts, in particular Shakespearean heroines, were innovative and individualistic, and she brought to them wholly new dimensions which staggered with their brilliance.
Charlie, the stage-door attendant, gave her a cheery greeting, and after exchanging a few friendly words with him, she went down the stone staircase to her dressing room. She sighed with relief as she closed the door and snapped on the light. She was home again. Safe and secure. Here nothing could harm her.
Katharine always went to the theatre 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?
