Once inside, Margot closed the door and let the tears flow. She took off her coat and hung it up. Then she stepped out of the beautiful gold sequin evening gown that Betsy had ‘borrowed’ for her from the wardrobe store. She put on her black skirt and white blouse and looked in the mirror. Her hair looked fine, but her makeup had all but been cried off. She took a handkerchief from her handbag, spat on it, and gently rubbed the mascara that had been washed from her eyelashes to her cheeks. She didn’t look much better, but she didn’t care.
After putting on her usherette’s tabard, Margot left the room. Her legs felt like marshmallows, but she held her head up and set off along the corridor at a pace. By the time she arrived at Miss Lesley’s office any confidence that she had mustered had gone. Forcing herself not to cry again, Margot lifted her hand and made a fist to knock. However, before her knuckles met the wood the door opened.
‘Come in, Margaret.’
Margot followed Miss Lesley into her office and closed the door. Standing in front of the large desk, she clasped her hands so tightly behind her back that her nails dug into her palms.
‘I think you know why I have asked you to come and see me?’ Margot nodded, but didn’t speak. ‘I’ve been told by a reliable source that you’ve been leaving the theatre during the second act to sing in a nightclub in Soho.’
‘Soho? Who told you--?’
‘Please don’t interrupt, Margaret. Or should I call you Margot?’
Margot opened her mouth again, but shut it quickly when she realised Miss Lesley didn’t actually want an answer.
‘And,’ she went on, ‘you return to the theatre, to your job as an usherette, just before the end of the show?’ Margot didn’t say anything. She didn’t know whether she was meant to answer the question, or not. ‘Well, is it true?’
‘Yes,’ Margot whispered. ‘But it isn’t in Soho and it’s only once a week. I--’ Margot saw Miss Lesley’s eyes spark with anger, so she cut short the explanation.
‘The address and the dates are irrelevant, Margaret! You’ve been leaving your post in the middle of the show!’
Margot felt the tears begin. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve let you down, Miss Lesley. It won’t happen again.’
‘No, Margaret, it won’t! However naïve I think you are for chasing this hobby, or whatever you call it, I’m going to release you from your job as an usherette to pursue it.’
‘You’re sacking me?’ Margot cried.
‘No, I’m not sacking you. You are going to leave. Tonight wasn’t the first time you were absent from your post, but it was the last. It isn’t fair on the other usherettes if they have to do your work as well as their own.’
‘Does Mr Goldman know I’ve been-- I’m leaving--’
‘No. As you’re a personal friend, I thought it best not to involve him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Besides, it isn’t as if you’re leaving the theatre. You’ll still have your job in wardrobe.’
‘Will I?’
‘Of course. It’s only because you’re not interested in being an usherette that you’ve become unreliable. You obviously enjoy working with Mrs Horton, which is why she’s always singing your praises. Right, you’d better get off. It’s gone eleven. Your husband will be wondering where you are.’
‘Thank you, Miss Lesley. I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble.’
‘I know you are. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’ Margot left the small office and made for the backstage passage. Bill would be at the stage door waiting for her. She wasn’t looking forward to telling him she’d been released from her usherette job. Miss Lesley’s a lovely person, she thought, pushing open the door that would take her backstage. I don’t blame her for getting rid of me. I’d get rid of me, if I was her.
Looking on the bright side, she would be able to watch the show at night without interruption. She knew most of the routines well enough to perform already, but new ones were being added all the time, sometimes weekly. Working in wardrobe she’d often be backstage when the artists were learning new routines. She would watch from the wings and rehearse at home. Margot brightened. Now she didn’t work as an usherette at night, she might be able to do another spot at the Albert Club. And when the time was right, she’d ask George, or Nancy, to introduce her to the theatre’s director, Richard Smiley. She could invite him to the club to see her sing and afterwards, over a glass of champagne, suggest herself as an understudy. Tell him that when the chorus girls were called up, or left the show at short notice, she could step in and take their place. She would casually mention that she knew all the songs and dances and-- And she heard Bill’s voice. She’d decide what to say nearer the time.
She looked in the mirror at the end of the passage. She looked terrible. She’d cried off her makeup, her face was blotchy and her eyes were red, but there was nothing she could do about it. She cleared her throat, put on a smile, and entered the stage door area. ‘Is Bill here, Bert?’
‘In here, reading Bert’s newspaper.’
Margot peeped through the small hatch. ‘It’s all right for some,’ she joked. ‘Are you warm enough sitting in front of Bert’s fire?’
‘Yes I am.’ Bill pushed himself out of Bert’s old chair. ‘What on earth...? Have you been crying?’ he asked, putting his arms round his wife.
‘Take me home, Bill.’
‘Who’s upset you, darling?’
‘I’ve upset me, Bill. I’ve upset everything.’ Margot buried her head in the sheepskin lining of her
