By the lamp’s pale glow, she staggered into the small hall and through the sitting room to the kitchen. She struck a match and lit a ring on the stove for the kettle, and then the grill for the toast. After filling the kettle and putting it on the gas, she took the lid off the bread bin. What was left of the loaf was covered in mould. She turned off the grill. Tea would have to do. Putting a couple of spoons of tea in the pot, she took a cup and saucer from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and placed them on the work surface before taking the milk from the stone slab in the small pantry. Sniffing it, half expecting it to be off, she smiled. The milk did smell a little rich, but it hadn’t turned.
While she waited for the kettle to boil, she pulled back the blackout curtain and peered out of the window. The sky, as clear as glass, was dotted with stars. The moon was full with an eerie mustard yellow halo around it. She looked down and shivered. The Mews was full of shadows – some denser than others. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. Every nerve in her body was jumping. Her chest was tight with fear and she began to panic. She held her breath and waited for the feeling to subside. It didn’t. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly – that didn’t help either.
Saved by the kettle whistling, Margot turned and let the curtain fall back into place. In the kitchen she made a pot of tea and riffled through the cupboards for something to eat. Nothing! Pouring tea into her cup, she remembered the Christmas present that Mrs Horton had given her. She went into the sitting room, knelt by the small fir tree and dragged the prettily wrapped gift from under it. Like an excited child she ripped off the paper and prised off the lid to find a tin of assorted Peak Frean’s biscuits. She picked out her favourites - custard creams and the round ones with jam in the middle – and ate them hungrily while she drank her tea. Then she ran to the bathroom and was violently sick.
‘OK! Take ten, everyone,’ Richard Smiley called from the stalls. ‘Not you, Margot,’ he said, beckoning her with his forefinger.
Walking to the edge of the stage, Margot looked into the auditorium. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw the director walking towards her. He mounted the steps at the side of the orchestra pit and stood on the apron with his hands on his hips. ‘What the hell is going on with you, Margot? Are you ill?’
‘No. I’m just a bit tired. I’m not sleeping well. You know how it is; stuff goes round in your head...’ Smiley didn’t look convinced. ‘I’ll be as right as rain after a good night’s sleep,’ she promised.
‘Then go home and get some. You’re no good to me as you are.’
She began to protest, but Smiley turned his back on her and flicked his hand as if he was brushing away a fly.
Exhausted, Margot took off her coat, kicked off her shoes and went into the bathroom. She opened the door of the cabinet and took out a small brown bottle. Trembling, she unscrewed the cap, tipped a couple of pills into her hand, tilted her head back and threw them into her mouth. There wasn’t a glass for water and the bitter tang as the pills began to dissolve made her heave, so she turned on the tap and put her head under it. Balking, she gulped water until she had swallowed the tablets. Wiping the back of her hand across her face, she stumbled into the bedroom – and, fully dressed, dropped onto the bed. She was asleep in seconds.
The following morning, Margot forced herself to get up. She washed and dressed, and went to see her doctor. Sitting in the waiting room she thought about the first time she’d seen him. He said there was nothing wrong with her, that all she needed was a good night’s sleep. He prescribed pills for the pain in her ankle, which she took three times a day, and sleeping tablets that she took half an hour before she went to bed. They worked for a while, but then she started waking up after seven or eight hours feeling shattered, as if she hadn’t slept at all. She couldn’t face getting up. When she did eventually drag herself out of bed, it was often with a blinding headache. She felt sluggish, irritable, had no energy. She was repeatedly late for rehearsals and would argue with the choreographer and the director. But the worst was not being able to remember her songs and routines. She made excuses, blamed other people, but she knew it wasn’t them. Even Lena, the choreographer, who had become a friend, accused her of not listening. But she had listened. She’d heard every word. She just couldn’t remember.
The receptionist was suddenly standing in front of her. ‘The doctor will see you now, Miss Dudley.’
‘Thank you.’ Margot followed her along a short corridor to the consulting room. Sitting down in front of his desk, Margot told the doctor that the effects of the sleeping tablets he’d prescribed for her lasted too long. She overslept most mornings. And when she did eventually wake up, she felt as tired as she had done before going to bed. It wasn’t until mid-morning that she was able to function properly. ‘Should I stop taking the sleeping tablets? They make me feel…’ She searched for the right words. ‘Lifeless,’ she said at last, ‘and irritable. I’m having bad dreams and headaches, and
