Looking through the cards and telegrams on the post table, Margot bit back the tears. ‘Has Bill phoned, Stan?’
The stage doorman shook his head. ‘Not today, Miss.’
It had been two months since Bill left London – two of the loneliest months of Margot’s life. ‘Never mind, I wasn’t expecting him to ring,’ she said, forcing a smile to hide the disappointment she felt. Except for the first time she appeared on stage, when she took over from Goldie, Bill had always sent her a good luck telegram. She swallowed hard and looked over her shoulder. ‘He’s been working all hours. I don’t expect he had time to get to the post office.’ She picked up the envelopes with her name on and dropped the rest on the table with a carefree shrug. ‘See you later.’
‘If-- When the telegram comes, Miss, I’ll bring it along,’ Stan called after her.
Margot didn’t turn. ‘Thanks, Stan.’ She had asked the same question of Stan every night for weeks and every night the answer had been the same. No card, no telegram, not even a message. Overwhelmed with disappointment she entered the dressing room and began to cry. She kicked the door shut and sobbed.
Looking in the mirror above her dressing table, Margot looked to the left and then to the right. With carefully applied makeup she had an English Rose complexion. The fashionably high waves at the front of her hair accentuated her cheekbones and the roll in the nape of her slender neck was flattering to her jaw-line. She looked every inch a star. She had achieved fame and stardom. She was topping the bill at The Talk of London and starring in the most popular West End theatre show, so why was she so desperately unhappy? Great pear-shaped tears fell from her eyes. She was tired. She was tired and she was lonely – and she wanted Bill.
Margot reached inside the drawer of her dressing table for her handkerchief and found the pep pills that the private doctor had given her. Turning them over in her hand, she recalled the feelings she experienced after taking them. One stopped her from feeling sad. Two made her feel happy and stopped her thinking about Bill. But three made her paranoid. She would never take three again.
At the sink, she filled a glass with water. Her hands were shaking, so she put the glass down before taking the top off the bottle of pills. She inhaled deeply and caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink. The beautiful star known as Margot Dudley was looking into the mirror, but the woman who haunted her dreams – the haggard old woman with dull unseeing eyes, the woman dependent on drugs and alcohol – looked back at her.
‘No!’ Margot screamed, and she threw the bottle and the glass at the wall. Immediately regretting what she’d done, she fell to her knees and crawled around until she’d found every pill, putting two into her mouth before returning the rest to the bottle. She retched as the bitter-tasting pills began to dissolve. Hauling herself to her feet she ran to the sink and spat them out. She turned on the tap and cupped her hands under the running water, scooping it into her mouth, swilling it round and gargling and then spitting it out, but the bitter taste remained. She slid to her knees desperate for something, anything, to take away the vile taste. Brandy! There was a small bottle in the cupboard by the chaise. On all fours she crawled to the cupboard, opened it and took out the brandy. The glass was smashed so she unscrewed the cap and drank from the bottle. She shuddered and shook her head. The strong spirit overpowered the taste of the pills as it burned its way down her throat, but she’d need another drink to make her feel better. She put the bottle to her mouth again and gagged at the smell. Still on the floor, she leant her head against the seat of the settee.
She’d rest for ten minutes; half an hour at most. Then she’d feel better, refreshed. Her eyes felt heavy, so she closed them.
‘Margot? Margot, wake up!’ George was pulling her, dragging her to her feet. ‘Stand up!’ she ordered. ‘Margot? Can you hear me?’
‘Of course I can hear you. What’s the matter?’
‘Thank God. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Why?’ Margot opened her hand. She had fallen asleep holding the bottle of pills.
‘How many have you taken?’
‘None! I was going to, but I didn’t. And I won’t. I promise. I’ll never take them again. Would you get rid of them for me?’ she asked, handing the bottle to George, who was leaning suspiciously close to her. ‘And the brandy you can smell was one sip. Honestly,’ Margot said, allowing George to take the bottle from her.
All the applause in the world, all the cards and the flowers, couldn’t make up for Bill not being there, waiting for her at the stage door, his motorbike helmet in one hand and hers in the other. She had been embarrassed the first time he arrived at the theatre on his motorbike. The boyfriends and husbands of the other dancers called for them in cars. Salvatore sent a car for Nancy, Kat’s married politician boyfriend collected her in a chauffeur-driven limousine, and Bill turned up on his motorbike. What she would give now to see her handsome husband waiting for her in his leather overcoat and old motorbike boots.
Margot kicked off her shoes and sat down. ‘It’s no fun without Bill,’ she told her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Her feet ached and her ankle was swollen. ‘These shoes are too tight, or I’ve overdone it again,’ she said, rubbing one foot and then the other. ‘If Bill was
