Bill looked out of the back window and mouthed, ‘I love you.’ A second later he had gone, swallowed up in the traffic on Tottenham Court Road. Margot fell to her knees and sobbed. A passer-by helped her up and walked her back to the apartment. Tears coursing down her cheeks, shivering uncontrollably from the bitter winter fog, she stumbled inside and threw herself at the door. It slammed shut. Sobbing, she took hold of the stair-rail and pulled herself up a stair at a time. In a daze she staggered into the bedroom and crawled into bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Dr Thurlingham thought for a moment before looking again at Margot’s notes. ‘No, Margot. It’s too early to go back to work. You’re doing well, but you can’t rush these things. It’ll soon be Christmas. Use the holiday to relax, recharge your batteries, get to know your husband again without the pressure of having to perform every night. We’ll discuss your return to the theatre again in the New Year.’
Assuring the doctor she would take his advice, Margot made an appointment for January 24th 1946, and left the clinic. As soon as she was outside she hailed a cab.
‘Where to, Miss?’
‘The Prince Albert Theatre on the Strand,’ she said, jumping in. ‘And put your foot down, I’m late for rehearsal.’
Margot didn’t need Dr Thurlingham’s permission. She would have liked it, but it was academic, as Bill would have said. She hadn’t only accepted Bernard Rudman’s offer to do cabaret at The Talk of London every Saturday night, she had been to lunch with Natalie and Anton, and when Anton offered her the role of the Good Fairy to George’s Wicked Witch with Betsy as Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty she had accepted without a second thought. And that night, when she met her friends at the Prince Albert Club to celebrate the three of them working together, Salvatore asked if she would like to do a late-night spot again. Margot said she’d think about it but she knew, as he did, that she would do it.
Margot threw herself into work. She was so busy during the day, learning new songs for her cabaret show in addition to rehearsing Sleeping Beauty at the theatre, that she was able to put Bill to the back of her mind. And at night, performing at the Albert Club or The Talk of London, she was, as Dr Thurlingham had said, Margot Dudley, star! But afterwards, at home on her own, she swung from missing Bill and loving him to being angry and hating him – depending on how much she’d had to drink. Alone in the apartment she became aware of every sound – outside and inside – and felt vulnerable and frightened. She asked the cab drivers who brought her home at night to wait until she’d checked the flat. When she had put on all the lights and looked in every room, she waved out of the window – only then was she content for the cabbies to leave. She thought she was going mad. She ran downstairs a dozen times to make sure she’d locked the street door, and left the wireless and lights on when she went to bed. If she didn’t cry herself to sleep she’d toss and turn with the lyrics of songs running around in her head, or she’d lie for hours pining for Bill. Already becoming paranoid, her mind raced through the gamut of emotions until she became confused and anxious.
As the weeks went by, Margot’s workload took its toll. She wasn’t sleeping and began to lose focus in rehearsals. She tried to catch up on Sundays, staying in bed until lunchtime. But she needed to work too, so she learned songs and routines in the afternoon – as she had done when she was an usherette – but it didn’t always work. When Monday morning came she was often exhausted and had to drag herself out of bed, but she didn’t take any pills.
Margot opened her eyes as soon as the small hammer on top of the alarm clock hit the bell. Eight o’clock. She sat on the side of the bed for a second and yawned. ‘Breakfast,’ she said, leaping to her feet. Tea and toast would do but first she stripped the bed and put on clean sheets, in case Bill stayed overnight. She felt the butterflies of excitement in the pit of her stomach. She wanted him, needed him, it had been--. She swept the memory of the last time they had made love from her mind and set about cleaning the apartment. When she had finished she checked each room. She wanted it to look perfect for Bill – and it did.
Breakfast ignored, Margot bathed and, wrapped in a bath towel, went into the bedroom. She took a pair of smart navy-blue slacks from the wardrobe and the powder blue cardigan she’d bought to go with them from the drawer and laid them on the bed. Then from her bedside table she took the three-string necklace of pearls that Bill had sent her. Dropping the towel, she put on the creamy pearls. They looked perfect; just a little deeper in colour than her skin. She then put on her underwear, slacks and cardigan and looked in the mirror. She unbuttoned the two tiny mother-of-pearl discs at the top of the cardigan to show off the necklace. She had opened the small
