them, and jumped from harm’s way like a startled hare. Bryant was a terrible driver. His priorities corresponded to none of the ones mentioned in the Highway Code. Nor did his signals, for that matter.
“Nobody mentioned dinner. She happens to consider me companionable.”
“Still, it’s a date. I thought you were working on Miss Wynter.”
“Miss Wynter is already spoken for. Her first love is the theatre. I suspect she enjoys her status as a spinster. Alma knows how to enjoy herself.”
“Don’t tell me you’re planning a night of love.”
“If you’d met her, you’d know you were being disgusting. Alma is religious and respectable. We have a couple of shilling seats for
“Well, at least you can watch with an easier mind.”
“Far from it,” said Bryant, “I’m going back to the theatre afterwards. They’ll be rehearsing late because the weather’s too bad for bombing. I want to make sure nothing else happens.”
“You mean you want to be there if it does.”
Bryant swerved the vehicle over to the side of the road. Horns honked and tyres screeched in the darkness. “How’s this for you?”
May reluctantly opened the door. “It’s not at all where I’m going but never mind, I’ll get a bus, it’s safer.” He pushed his long legs out into the rain. “Try to have a relaxing evening with Alma. You know where your nearest shelter is?”
“Alma will, she’s very practical. I won’t take anything in, you know, I shall be thinking about severed feet. I daresay you’re off to enjoy yourself with your busty sexpot.”
“Actually, I’m taking a night off to recuperate,” said May. “From what you’ve told me, your landlady sounds most keen. Perhaps you should consider the benefits of matrimony.”
“It seems an awful lot of effort just to get regular sex and someone to wash your socks. I mean, she already washes my socks.”
“Which still leaves the sex. I bet you can’t remember your last time.”
“Oh yes I can,” called Bryant, pulling away from the kerb. “Saturday night.” He indicated left and turned the wheel right. “It could have been perfect, but for one thing.”
“What’s that?” May hopped onto the pavement and squinted through the rain.
“I wasn’t with anyone,” laughed Bryant as he plunged back into the unlit traffic.
? Full Dark House ?
29
THE REFLECTED INFERNO
Eve Noriac loved the smell of an old theatre.
It was something no amount of carpentry or repainting could remove, a richly human odour. She had grown up on the south coast of France, in a small town outside Nice called Beaulieu, so sun-caressed that the area around it was known as La Petite Afrique, and her arrival in England had coincided with the most prolonged period of rainfall the country had seen in a decade. Within a fortnight she had resolved to go home, but then in May her homeland had been invaded, and she had been forced to stay.
It was then that she discovered the theatres. The Lyric, the Apollo, the Fortune, the Criterion, the Cambridge, each had its own stamp and style, but they all exuded the same sense of shared life. The diurnal passage of each play brought platoons of awestruck schoolchildren and seasoned veterans, locals and tourists, suffering spouses and devoted worshippers. The challenge was to unite them all and win them over.
No two shows were ever the same, even though they appeared identical from the front of the stage. A nightly war was waged for the hearts and minds of those watching. Ground was gained and lost as each evening peppered itself with small victories and defeats. Much-rehearsed movements were swallowed up or skimmed past unnoticed. Flaws were observed or concealed. Each script was a recipe for pleasing the crowd; moments rose perfectly to the intention of the text or fell flat. The subtle ebb and surge of the performances made for different emphases that could alter the total effect of the entertainment within the batting of an eye.
Eve’s role as Eurydice was the essence of the piece, but for a young soprano it was also a stepping stone for career-making roles to come. Some sopranos were technical virtuosos who honed their skills through ceaseless training. Others were born with a natural undisciplined talent that merely had to be shaped. The second type was rarer, but more thrilling to experience. Technical singers never bared their souls. Naturals were destructive, dangerous, even doomed. Their voices could create an extraordinary atmosphere of tension.
Actors can believe strange things; Eve Noriac knew she was a natural, and that her gift was granted by the gods of the theatre. They looked down kindly upon her, and protected her from harm. On the previous Saturday she had walked from St Paul’s to Blackfriars during a daylight bombing raid, while the wardens shouted at her to get off the street. Who you had faith in wasn’t important; it was that you had faith at all.
Eve’s only failure was in her choice of lovers; she knew she would have to do something about Miles. He had barely set foot in the theatre before they had fallen upon one another in an urgent, sweaty embrace. Thinking about him now, Eve knew he wasn’t her type. Miles would cling. She would have to wait until after opening night to tell him it had been a bad idea. She had no wish to damage his confidence before the critics had their chance.
Miles Stone was Eve’s counterpart, Orpheus to her Eurydice, and right now he was trying to keep the voice on the other end of the line from fading, but the building’s acoustics were playing tricks on him. It was as if the theatre frowned on the outside world, and interfered with the line connected to the ancient two-piece telephone in the hall outside the company office.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing in London,” he shouted, pressing his finger into his free ear. “I thought you were staying in New York. What do you mean, I invited you? I said don’t come. Yes, I did.”
Rachel’s reply was damaged by a searing crackle of static. This was all Miles needed right now, his mother staying in town. While everyone else’s mothers were heading for the comparative safety of the countryside, his was coming to the city.
“Why don’t you let me check you into a hotel?” he asked. He knew Rachel would prefer to stay in his damp apartment building. She distrusted English hotels, with their erratic service and weird plumbing.
“No, not in the centre, it’s not safe,” said Miles finally. “I’ll find you something further out, but you can’t just waltz along to rehearsals.” He was through taking Rachel’s advice. She always promoted Becky, his ex-wife, acting as if he was still married to her. Getting divorced was one of the few good ideas Miles had ever had. Changing his name from Saperstein to Stone had been a less successful move. He’d liked the mnemonic sound of Miles Stone; at least, until he overheard his agent referring to him as the Millstone. He knew he would have to ask Eve to stay away for a few weeks. Although the decree absolute had been settled a year ago, he was sure that Rachel still considered him married in the eyes of God, and he had not helped matters by occasionally sleeping with Becky when he was in New York. Rachel would only get into an argument with Eve if they met, and she would ensure that there was a meeting because she would turn up at the theatre whether he liked it or not, and report back to Becky. He had been caught in the velvet trap all his life, betrayed by his love of difficult women.
He settled the receiver back on its hook and walked down to the stage, a fiery riot of red, gold, purple and indigo flats and skycloths. There was so much set-dressing that he wondered whether the audience would be able to see anyone at all. On Saturday night they would have a full house plus the critics, the police, the St John’s Ambulance brigade and the odd ARP warden to add to the confusion.
An extraordinarily high note reverberated through the auditorium: that note was meant for him. Eve Noriac was standing at the front of the stage, stretching her throat and impatiently swinging her arms. As Miles set off down the stairs once more, he wondered how Orpheus had managed to avoid visiting Hell to save her in the past, seeing that she was not a woman to be kept waiting.
It was half past nine, and the few remaining performers were tired. Helena was slumped in a seat six rows fom the orchestra pit, sipping her hundredth cup of tea. On stage, Eurydice was having trouble adjusting to her new Jupiter in their duet, the ‘
