have to replace everything, that’s all there is to it,’ she concluded firmly.
‘Yes,’ Norman replied. But with what? he thought. Terry’s dead broke and up to his eyes in debt. Not to mention a lot of other rotten lousy problems. Norman was about to confide some of his crushing worries about Terry, but instantly changed his mind. Terry would have his guts for garters if he betrayed any secrets, and besides, Terry’s present condition was the most vital priority just now. Norman said quickly, ‘Come on then, me old love. Let’s shake a leg. The bloomin’ sand is running out. Don’t be too shocked when you see the boy, Katharine. He’s a bit under the weather.’
‘No, I won’t.’ She took his arm and hurried him down Piccadilly, as anxious as he was to get to the flat.
They were only a short distance from Albany. The entrance was just a stone’s throw away from the Burlington Arcade, and adjacent to the Royal Academy, the famed art gallery. Albany House, built by Lord Melbourne in 1770, had been turned into gentlemen’s chambers at a later date, pied-à-terre in the heart of Piccadilly for members of the English aristocracy and men of letters. The chambers, generally referred to as ‘rooms’ rather than flats, had become exclusive and desirable places of residence over the ensuing centuries, and those who lived there considered it a privilege to do so.
Norman ushered Katharine across the courtyard and up the steps to the glass doors which opened into the building. She sneaked a look at him, and saw at once that he seemed calmer now that they had finally arrived. They went in, and were greeted by an ancient uniformed porter, who looked as if he had been left over from the Battle of Balaclava. The stone-flagged hall was shadowy and silent, and their footsteps echoed hollowly as they crossed to a second set of doors at the other end. These led out to the Rope Walk, a covered walkway traversing the entire interior area of the building which was designed in the style of an atrium.
When they reached the door of John’s flat, Norman inserted the key and they went inside together. They were greeted quietly by Norman’s wife, Penny, who was standing in the hall near the drawing room, and it was most apparent she was relieved to see them. Penny, a petite and dainty blonde with pretty features, was pale and her face was tight with worry, but she was coolly controlled.
‘How is he holding up?’ Norman asked.
‘Not too good. He’s very shaky. But fortunately his arm hasn’t started to bleed again,’ Penny responded, summoning a cheerful tone. She nodded in the direction of the drawing room. ‘Let’s pop in there for a tick, before you see him, and I’ll fill you in.’
Walking into the drawing room, Katharine saw at once that Norman had not exaggerated in the least when he said the place was in a shambles. If anything, he had underplayed the result of the altercation. More like a bar brawl, Katharine commented to herself, compressing her lips. The room, which she had always admired for its beauty and elegance, was in great disarray. Two large Chinese porcelain lamps had been smashed and, with their dented silk shades, had been placed in a corner out of the way; and several small antique tables with broken legs were laid on their sides next to the lamps. A large and extraordinarily lovely Venetian mirror, hanging above the white-marble fireplace, was cracked and splintered down the middle, and John’s collection of prized pink and green Chinese jade ornaments had been reduced to dozens of small pieces. They lay on a newspaper on top of a circular Georgian rent table, looking like a rare jigsaw puzzle about to be reassembled. The pale blue carpet had several cigarette burns and dark splotches where red wine had been spilled, and the same ugly wine stains splattered across the cushions on the pale blue velvet sofa, also streaked down the blue silk draperies at the window.
Katharine was appalled. It was apparent to her that either Penny, or Norman earlier, had endeavoured to clean up and restore a semblance of order, but even so the considerable damage was only too visible. Her eyes swept around the room again, and her face reflected her distress. ‘How could Terry let this happen?’ she cried, turning to Norman who was close behind her.
‘I don’t know,’ Norman murmured miserably. ‘I’ve also been wondering how he could let himself get stabbed.’
Katharine flushed deeply. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said. She hadn’t meant to sound so callous, or dismissive of Terry’s injury, certainly more important than broken furnishings. She looked at Penny. ‘You said Terry was shaky. What do you think about his appearing tonight?’
Penny shook her head. ‘I think it would be disastrous, Katharine. I’ve tried to sober him up, and certainly he’s a lot better than he was, but a real hangover’s settling in.’
Norman groaned. ‘I’m at my bloody wits’ end! It’s up to you now, Katharine. Perhaps you’ll be able to persuade him to stay put for twenty-four hours. What he needs is a good kip.’
‘I’ll give it a try,’ she replied. ‘Shall we go in and see him?’ Katharine followed Norman and Penny out of the drawing room. Norman suddenly halted at the bedroom door at the other end of the entrance hall. ‘Perhaps I’d better warn him. Tell him you’re here, Katharine. He didn’t know I’d gone to fetch you.’ He hurried into the bedroom and Penny and Katharine hovered outside the door, which stood open a few inches.
They could hear Norman talking in a low tone, and then Terry’s voice reverberating loudly, as he shouted, ‘Jesus bloody Christ! What did you have to go and do that for? You silly sod!’ There was low murmuring, as Norman attempted to calm Terry down, and then he poked his head around the door and motioned for them to come into the bedroom.
Katharine hesitated imperceptibly before moving forward, realizing that Terry was most probably discomfited because she was seeing him in a disreputable condition: The great lover as the rake.
Penny gave her a little push and she was forced to take a few more steps, and suddenly Terry was in her line of vision. Her heart dropped when she saw him, but she was able to keep her face expressionless, her shock concealed, and her smile barely faltered.
Terry was lying on top of the bedcover, propped up against a pile of snowy white pillows, wearing only black silk pyjama bottoms. His wounded left arm was almost completely covered in bandages, and she noticed that he had sustained other injuries. His right shoulder and arm were black and blue with angry bruises, and there were ragged vivid scratches on his neck. And apart from his battered body, his appearance was so much worse than she had envisioned, she was further alarmed. Terry looked ghastly. His unshaven face was puffy and swollen and without a drop of colour, and his blue eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed with faint mauve smudges underneath them. He seemed slightly dazed, his eyes glazed, and he had trouble focusing on Katharine. There was an aura of such terrible dissipation about him, Katharine was sickened and yet curiously sad for him.
A pressing question dangled on the tip of her tongue: Who did this to you, Terry darling? But she was unable to utter the words, fearful of exciting him or causing him more pain at this moment. Instinctively she knew, too, that he would not tell her.
‘Hello, Puss,’ Terry said, his voice weak and hoarse, as if his loud shouting of a few seconds before had drained him. ‘Fine pickle I’m in, eh?’
‘Yes, love, it is,’ Katharine answered, producing a radiant smile, one that was also loving. Her voice was softly comforting, as she continued, ‘But it could be worse, you know. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. Why, Norman just said to me all you need is a good kip.’ She smiled again, and remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘You’ll be back on stage tomorrow night.’
Gathering the remainder of his diminished strength, Terry pushed himself up on the pillows and positively glared at her. ‘Tonight! I’m not missing a performance. Not because of this piddling little scratch. Not bloody
