She put on her own clothes and looked at her wristwatch. Bill was late. The washing basket was full to overflowing. There was nothing she could do about it at this hour, but she could iron while she waited. After plugging in the iron, she sorted through the pile of garments, putting those made of delicate fabrics to one side for Mrs Horton in the morning. As she turned back to the ironing board she caught her reflection in the mirror and jumped. Perhaps being up here alone wasn’t such a good idea. Even in the daytime it could be eerie when no one was around. She looked across at the dummies and mannequins in the costume room. The ghostly shadows they cast made her shudder.
Forcing all thoughts of the supernatural from her mind, Margaret picked up the iron and spat on her finger. She was about to test it to see if it was hot enough when she heard knocking coming from the costume room. She froze. She put the iron on its stand and tiptoed over to the entrance. She strained her eyes and looked in. The mannequins, standing in rows, looked like soldiers preparing to march. With the light behind her, Margaret couldn’t tell the difference between Kat’s mannequin and Nancy’s.
She stood still and listened. She couldn’t hear anything. Ah! There it was again – knock, knock, knock – and it seemed to be getting louder. Convinced someone was hiding among the dummies she shouted, ‘I know you’re in there. Come out and show yourself!’ She ran back and unplugged the iron. Picking it up with the hot plate facing forwards she wound the flex around her wrist and put the plug in her pocket. Slowly she made her way into the room, weaving in and out of the mannequins. As she ducked under a rack of jackets her hair caught on something. She lifted her free hand and lashed out at the attacking garment. It turned on its hanger but didn’t release her hair. Another swipe sent the jacket spinning to the floor with strands of Margaret’s hair coiled round a button.
It was unusually cold. She wondered if she was standing in a cold spot like the one on the landing. Fingers of ice inched their way up her spine and she shuddered. Too frightened to stay any longer, she turned to leave. It was then that she saw the reason for the knocking. A small window at the back of the room had been left open and with every gust of wind the weights in the bottom of the blackout blind banged against a wooden belt rack.
Relieved, Margaret slammed the window shut. ‘I’ll wait for Bill downstairs,’ she told one of the dummies as she passed. She returned the iron, standing it upright because it was still warm, and made her way to the door. She looked back. Everything was safe. Switching off the lights, she ran along the passage and down two flights of stairs. Halfway along the last passage she heard footsteps. They weren’t Bert’s: his were heavier, and Bill’s gait was quicker. She held her breath. The building creaks when it begins to cool down, she thought, but it didn’t stumble as these steps had just done. Scared out of her wits, Margaret ducked into dressing room two.
She had been standing in the dark dressing room for what felt like minutes, but could only have been a seconds, when the door flew open and someone staggered in. Without putting on the light the person turned, pushed the door shut, and screamed. Startled, Margaret screamed too.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
Margaret recognised the voice. ‘It’s me, Miss Kaplinski. Margaret,’ she said, switching on the light.
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ Katarina Kaplinski shouted. The hostile Russian dancer staggered across the room clutching her stomach and dropped onto the old chaise longue. Her face was as white as a sheet and contorted with pain.
‘Are you all right, Miss Kaplinski?’
‘Do I look as if I’m bloody all right?’
Margaret recoiled. She’d said the wrong thing to Kat again. She was always doing it. Kat had that effect on her; made her feel stupid. Margaret knew she shouldn’t be in the artist’s dressing room and wanted to leave, but she could see there was something very wrong with Kat. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Yes, a drink!’
Margaret filled a glass with water and offered it to her.
‘What the hell is this?’ she said, pushing the glass away. ‘I want something stronger!’
‘I don’t think you should have anything stronger.’
‘I don’t care what you think.’ Kat clutched her abdomen. ‘Bloody wardrobe girl telling me what I can and cannot have.’ She pulled herself to her feet and staggered across the room to the old stand-alone cupboard, where Margaret knew a bottle of brandy was kept for medicinal purposes. Before she had time to open it, she doubled over again. ‘Argh!’
Margaret ran to her. ‘All right, all right, I’ll get you a brandy, but let me help you back to the chaise first.’
‘Leave me alone!’ Kat pushed Margaret away, opened the cupboard and took the brandy from it. As she turned she began to sway. She took several deep breaths, which seemed to help her regain her balance, but then she clutched her stomach again. ‘You are right, Margaret,’ she whispered, ‘I will be better lying down. I cannot fall down then, can I?’
Margaret had just settled Kat back to the chaise when there was a knock at the door.
Anton Goldman called from the corridor: ‘Margaret, if you want a lift home, I’ll be leaving in ten minutes.’
