cell, Juliet’s bedroom, and later her tomb, while the costumes—fresh and brightly coloured at first—faded subtly but inevitably to black, mirroring the shifting mood of the story.
Feeling as though she had already dealt Lydia one blow that evening, Josephine was determined to dislike her rival leading lady’s portrayal of Juliet—but she found it impossible to do so. Peggy seemed to have walked straight out of a Botticelli painting, and the lightness and spontaneity of her performance made it a joy to watch. Larry was coming to the end of his time as Romeo, and, although Shakespeare’s poetry would no doubt be better served when John Terry took over the role at the end of the month, Josephine doubted that Johnny—who was really only in love with himself—would be capable of the sort of youthful, restless passion that had the audience captivated this evening. Somehow, Larry managed to be impetuous and hesitant at the same time, and it took no great feat of imagination to believe that he was in the grip of a love so intense that he gave little thought to the consequences. It was really the last thing Josephine needed to see, preoccupied as she was with Marta, and, when the actor tenderly touched the balcony as though the stones were an extension of Juliet herself, she found herself barely able to watch.
While the actors were taking their third curtain call, Josephine left her seat and walked round to the stage door. Larry was already on his way up from the green room, and she congratulated him warmly. ‘Thanks, Josephine,’ he said, giving her that raffish smile which had made him such an attractive Bothwell when he stepped into her
The green room was full of the usual post-show detritus—abandoned glasses of wine, half-eaten meals, cast-off modesty—and it didn’t take her long to locate the Motleys amid the shrieking and hilarity coming from one of the dressing rooms. ‘Vivienne was absolutely right,’ Ronnie was saying as Josephine put her head round the door. ‘Her make-up walks on stage and Hephzibar follows three minutes later!’ As the rest of the room dissolved into rowdy laughter, Ronnie noticed her and jumped up from Benvolio’s lap to greet her. ‘Josephine! About bloody time! In town for forty-eight hours at least and not a peep out of you. How on earth have you coped without us?’
‘I haven’t. Why do you think I’m here now?’ She hugged Ronnie and Lettice, then went over to kiss Lettice’s fiance, George, who had taken the role of Peter in the play. ‘It’s a fabulous production—you must all be thrilled with it.’
‘We are,’ Lettice agreed, ‘but we’re even more pleased with the houses. For the first time ever, we’re on a percentage of the profits. Every ticket sold is a farthing to us.’
‘So make sure they pay for dinner, Josephine,’ said George, smiling.
‘Aren’t you joining us then?’
‘No, but I am,’ said a voice behind her, and she felt hands on her shoulders and a kiss on the back of her head.
‘Lydia! I wasn’t expecting … How lovely to see you.’ Josephine struggled through to the end of the sentence, hoping that she sounded more convincing than she felt. After what had happened earlier, maintaining an air of normality with the Motleys would have been difficult; with Lydia there too, it was nigh on impossible, and her mask seemed to be slipping already.
‘Are you all right?’ Lettice asked, looking solicitously at her. ‘You don’t seem quite yourself.’
‘Oh, I’m fine. I’ve just spent the day in the company of some rather odd people, and it takes me a while to come up for air.’
‘That’ll teach you to stay at a women’s club,’ Ronnie said, stubbing her cigarette out and reaching for her coat.
Josephine laughed. ‘I wasn’t talking about them. I meant the people I’m writing about.’
‘Even so, you should be careful. It’s only a matter of time before all that female company rubs off on you.’
‘I should be so lucky,’ Lydia said, feigning an expression of self-pity. ‘It’s been so long, I think I’ve forgotten what to do.’
‘Shouldn’t we be going?’ Josephine asked casually.
‘Yes, we should.’ Lettice looked at her watch and kissed George goodbye. ‘I don’t want them giving our table to someone else—I’m starving. We can catch up on the way.’
They walked out into St Martin’s Lane, where the snow was just beginning to settle on window ledges and car rooftops. ‘Good God, Marjorie’s still at it,’ Ronnie said, glancing up at the studio windows. ‘Do you think we should pop in and tell her to go home?’ She poked Josephine in the shoulder. ‘And we could show you your outfit for next week—you’re about the only member of the bloody Cowdray Club who hasn’t stepped over our threshold today.’ Just as she finished speaking, the lights went out in the workroom.
‘Looks like she’s finally had enough,’ Lettice said. ‘I don’t blame her—she’s worked hard today. We’ll have to show Josephine tomorrow—Marjorie will only feel obliged to stay longer if we go up now, and we don’t want her to think we’re checking up on her.’
They carried on to the restaurant, and Lydia fell into step with Josephine, leaving the sisters to talk about work. ‘Of course, neither of them can wear tights,’ she said cryptically. ‘Larry’s really too thin, and Johnny’s completely knock-kneed.’ It was a game attempt to be light-hearted, but Josephine knew how difficult it must be for Lydia to watch a younger woman in the role she so craved, and to know in her heart that she was unlikely ever to play Juliet again. ‘Johnny promised me we’d do it together one more time,’ she continued, ‘and then the bastard goes behind my back and gives it to Peggy without even having the decency to explain why. Tell me honestly—you’d never know there was seventeen years between me and her, would you?’
‘No, of course not,’ Josephine said, painfully aware that the triumph of Peggy’s performance lay in the way she had preserved Juliet’s youth with her passion. She remembered how often she had seen Lydia on stage, long before they ever met, and how much she had admired her; to Josephine’s mind, she was a much finer actress than any of her contemporaries, but that was no consolation when the theatre belonged to a new generation. ‘You know how it is, though,’ she continued vaguely. ‘Politics always get in the way. I’m sure if Johnny had a free hand you’d be his first choice, but he has so many people to please. And it’s not as though you haven’t been busy.’
‘Picking up Flora’s crumbs in a second-rate play at the Savoy is hardly the same thing. I really won’t be sorry to see the back of this year—I feel like I’ve been frustrated at every turn. I hope to God that 1936 will be better.’
‘At least you have the cottage,’ Josephine said, knowing that the house in the country which Lydia had bought after the success of
‘Tagley? Yes, it’s heavenly—you must come and see it.’ She took Josephine’s arm. ‘I’m sorry to be such a miserable cow, but I still haven’t heard from her. I had this stupid idea that we might be able to spend Christmas together at the cottage—use it as a place to start again. If I’m honest, I suppose that’s partly why I bought it, but she hasn’t answered any of my letters.’
‘Has there been anyone else?’ Josephine asked. ‘For you, I mean,’ she added hurriedly.
‘Nothing serious. I haven’t got the heart for anything that matters, and I never thought I’d hear myself say that.’ She sighed. ‘God, Josephine—eighteen months ago I had everything I wanted. You can lose it all so quickly, can’t you?’
Josephine nodded. ‘If Marta did get in touch, would you do things differently this time?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, after she left, you told me that if you’d paid more attention to her and how she was feeling, things might have been different. So would you put Marta first now? Ahead of the next part?’
‘Of course I would.’ She caught Josephine’s eye. ‘Well, I’d try to. I’d convince myself I could. Let’s face it, I’m going to have more time on my hands as I get older, not less.’
‘That sounds like a choice by default.’
‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ Lydia was quiet for a moment. ‘It worked, though, didn’t it?’ she asked eventually. ‘You thought we were happy together?’
Josephine recalled the time she’d spent with Marta and Lydia; brief though it was, she had envied their closeness with an intensity which had surprised her and, in the months since, had found herself acknowledging her own restlessness—she refused to call it loneliness—with alarming regularity. Perhaps that was why Marta had
