could appreciate the slenderness of her waist.
‘Have you ever cheated on her?’ she muttered into the flames.
‘No.’
‘Have you ever wanted to?’ she whispered to his reflection in the mirror.
‘Yes,’ said Declan simply. ‘All this week.’
Cameron stayed motionless by the fire until the heat from the flames became too strong. ‘Then it wasn’t just me?’
‘It’s going on location,’ said Declan flatly. ‘When you create something you both know is special, it seems natural to have some kind of consummation.’
‘One devoutly to be wished,’ said Cameron fiercely.
‘And ludicrously prevalent in television,’ said Declan. ‘It happens on shoots all the time.’
‘Not like this,’ pleaded Cameron. Turning, she went up to him. Idly he reached out and fingered the huge low-slung silver buckle of her belt.
‘It’d complicate things,’ he said roughly. ‘At a time we don’t need complications. Maud would disintegrate; I can’t afford to fall out with Rupert. I can’t afford anything at the moment.’
‘Don’t joke. It’s too important,’ hissed Cameron, moving her legs between his, pressing her groin forward against the palm of his hand. She felt Declan tremble.
‘We’d be so good together, let’s go upstairs now,’ she urged. They both jumped as the barman returned.
‘Not much wind tonight,’ he said blithely, ‘but what there is is blowing terrible hard.’
‘You look frozen,’ said Declan. ‘Sit down and have a drink.’
Fuck fuck fuck, or rather no fuck, Cameron screamed inwardly, as the barman collected a glass and sat down between them.
‘You’ll be being a bit of a writer, Declan,’ he said. ‘Did ye know there’s another of your kind living not ten minutes from here? Anglo-Irish, name’s MacBride.’
Declan froze, like a dog hearing a rabbit in the undergrowth. ‘Dermot MacBride, he lives here?’
‘Came in the other night. Said he’d just finished a play, but he didn’t think anyone’d be interested. Thought they’d all forgotten him.’
‘Him!’ said Declan incredulously. ‘Do you forget Ibsen or Miller? Have you got his address?’
‘I’ve his number,’ said the barman. ‘He wanted some manure for his garden.’
‘Name’s familiar,’ said Cameron.
‘The angriest of all the angry young men,’ said Declan, ‘and easily the most unpleasant, and the most talented. He made a bomb from his first play, then the second was so venomous and obscene no one would touch it. He took umbrage and vowed never to write another word. Christ, it’s like a new novel from Salinger. Give me the number,’ he said to the barman, ‘I’m going to ring him.’
‘But it’s half past eleven,’ protested Cameron.
Declan was back, ecstatic, ten minutes later. ‘He’d gone to Dublin. I rang him there. I’m going to see him at eleven tomorrow morning.’
‘Cutting it a bit fine,’ said Cameron. ‘The flight’s at one. Maud,’ she added bitterly, ‘would totally disintegrate if you missed it.’
‘I’ll see him alone,’ said Declan. ‘He’s not keen on women. I’ll keep a taxi waiting and meet you at the airport.’
He put his hand on her head, briefly stroking her hair: ‘We’d better go to bed, we’ve got an early start in the morning.’
As Saturday wore on, Maud was increasingly in need of Declan. To fill in time, she went to the hairdressers, and even had a manicure, but her hand shook so much the manicurist had trouble getting the polish on. She also bought good luck cards for the rest of the cast, and some champagne in case by some miracle anyone came backstage to see her afterwards.
Arriving at the theatre, she gave a gasp of terror at the huge lights on metal stands trained on the main entrance, ready to film the arriving celebrities, and huge cables running from these and from the cameras inside the theatre to a variety of OB vans. She felt even sicker at the sight of a make-up caravan, a mobile dressing-room for James, and a double-decker catering bus for the technicians.
Even though the town hall was less than 300 yards from the Corinium Television building, union rules required all these facilities.
Going into her dressing-room, Maud gasped again, but this time with delight, because she’d never seen so many flowers — from the family, and Rupert and Cameron, and the Verekers, and the Joneses and the Baddinghams, and so many of her friends in London. There were also scores of good luck cards, and a telex from darling Patrick in Brisbane. But so much good will made her feel even more nervous. What happened if she let them all down?
She looked at her watch: five o’clock. She needed twenty minutes alone with the script to absorb the notes Barton had given her yesterday. Then her make-up would take an hour, by which time Declan would be here, and he could do up her dress and her jewellery and they could have a quiet hour together. But, as she tried to concentrate on the script, she was interrupted by the arrival of more and more flowers, and by Monica popping in to see if she were all right, and by Bas who’d brought her a fluffy stuffed black cat which miaowed good luck when you pressed it. Maud was enchanted.
‘And we’ve got time to rehearse “Love Unspoken” just once more,’ she said.
‘Let’s rehearse it lying down,’ said Bas, who’d just come back from hunting and was feeling randy.
‘Not before a performance,’ said Maud, shocked. ‘I couldn’t possibly concentrate.’
‘Well I’m not risking you going down on me with chattering teeth,’ said Bas. ‘So I’d better buzz off back to the Bar Sinister and pay the wages. We’re doing a roaring pre-theatre trade.’
As Taggie carried great saucepans of chicken Marengo in through the stage door, she could see people gathering in the foyer hoping for returns. The advance publicity and the possibility of the audience appearing on television had made it a total sell-out.
As she fell over cables and bits of scenery, she could hear, behind every dressing-room door, the cast warming up like the record department at Harrods. She felt simply terrified for her mother. Once she’d unloaded the stuff, there wasn’t much to do. The puddings were cold. The salads only needed dressing and she had just to put the chicken, the mashed potato and the garlic bread in the oven to heat up.
If the ovens were turned on low during the interval, everything would be ready, in case anyone was frightfully hungry, by the final curtain. Thank goodness Monica had provided plenty of people to help serve and wash up. As she came in with the last chocolate meringue cake, the telephone was ringing by the stage door.
‘Maud O’Hara,’ shouted the doorman.
‘My mother,’ said Taggie. ‘Shall I take it and see if it’s urgent?’
It was.
‘Maud,’ said the all-too-familiar, seductive rasp.
‘No, it’s Taggie.’
‘Your fucking father’s missed the plane.’
‘Oh, my God, are you sure?’
‘’Course I bloody am, I was on it,’ snapped Cameron. ‘The next one doesn’t land until nine forty-five. I’ve arranged for a car to pick him up and bring him straight to the theatre.’
‘But M-Mummy’ll die. She’s been going through our leaking roof with nerves all week.’
‘Tranq’ her till we get there,’ said Cameron. ‘I’ve got to change, and then Rupert and I’ll be over.’
With a sinking heart, Taggie knocked on Maud’s door.
‘Declan,’ said a low excited voice.
Maud, wearing only a sliding emerald-green towel now, sat at the brilliantly lit mirror, different eyeshadows littering the shelf in front of her, as though a paintbox had been upended. She had just spent forty minutes on her eyes. Huge, gold-green, hypnotic, impossibly seductive, like two separate works of art, they seemed almost too dominant for the heart-shaped, delicately flushed face.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Taggie nervously. ‘And what wonderful flowers.’
‘Where’s Daddy?’ demanded Maud. ‘He should have been here five minutes ago. Is he parking the car?’
