The Twist of a Knife (Hawthorne and Horowitz Investigate #4)(12)

Harriet ignored me. It was as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘So, you’ve been cast in a big film,’ she said. Now she was talking to Tirian. ‘Personally, I have to say that I think it’s a shame, all our young talent going over the Atlantic.’

‘I’m only crossing the Channel,’ Tirian replied. ‘We’re shooting in Paris.’

‘You know what I mean, dear. I suppose the Americans pay so much better, but what does that do for our own theatre and television?’ Again, that malicious gleam.

There was an uncomfortable silence. None of us wanted to talk to Harriet Throsby. I think we were all hoping she’d go away.

Sky broke the silence. ‘It’s nice to see you, Olivia,’ she said.

‘Oh. Hello, Sky.’

‘Do you two know each other?’ Harriet asked.

Olivia said nothing, so Sky explained. ‘We met at the first-night party for The Crucible at the Barbican. I played Mercy Lewis.’

‘Yes. I remember you.’

‘You didn’t like the production.’

Harriet shrugged. ‘It had its moments. Unfortunately, as I recall, they were too few and far between.’ She turned back to me, although once again her eyes refused to meet mine, as if she was trying to remind me that I meant nothing to her. ‘I’m glad I spotted you. What a lovely party! So unusual to have it Turkish-themed. Come on, Olivia. Our car’s waiting for us …’

And then the two of them were gone, crossing the restaurant to the exit and disappearing into the rain. I watched the door swing shut. The four of us were left trying to work out what had just occurred.

‘I need a large whisky,’ Ewan said. He put down his glass. ‘This Turkish wine tastes like cat’s piss.’

‘I’ve got a bottle of vodka in my dressing room,’ Sky said.

‘I’ve got some Scotch,’ Tirian added.

‘Then why don’t we go back?’ Ewan suggested.

None of us wanted to be at the party any more. Harriet Throsby hadn’t said anything mean or vindictive about the play but she had nonetheless spoiled it for all of us, which was exactly what she had intended.

Ewan looked at his watch. ‘I’ll go and get Jordan. Let’s meet there in ten …’

I shouldn’t have gone. I wish I’d listened to my earlier instincts and gone home with my family. Everything would have been so different. But, of course, you never know these things at the time. That’s why life is so different to fiction. Every day is a single page and you have no chance to thumb forward and see what lies ahead.





4


The First Review





Going backstage at the theatre is always a bizarre experience. It’s like stepping into a secret world.

All the comforts that the audience enjoys and expects disappear the moment you step through the stage door. Backstage, everything is relentlessly old-fashioned and utilitarian, as if the architects have deliberately set out to remind the actors and the crew that they are only the servants and matter less than the paying guests. The Vaudeville was built in the Romanesque style back in the late nineteenth century. Henry Irving had his first noticeable success there. I’ve described the luxuriousness of the lobby and the auditorium. But the corridors and dressing rooms on the other side of the mirror were quite another matter. Here, the flooring was covered by linoleum. Pipes and cables snaked willy-nilly along the walls, twisting between fire extinguishers, alarm boxes and overbright, naked light bulbs. I was fascinated by the pieces of defunct machinery that had been screwed into place a century ago and then forgotten. Even the noticeboard with its tatty cards and clippings could have come from a police station or a failing secondary school. I found it all rather alluring. The backstage area of any London theatre would make a great set. One glance and you’d know exactly where you were.

It was pelting with rain when I made my way back to Maiden Lane, the little backstreet in which the stage door of the Vaudeville was located. Normally, the theatre would have closed by ten o’clock, but Keith, the deputy stage-door manager, had agreed we could hang out there until midnight. Sky Palmer had arrived ahead of me and was shaking water out of a Gucci umbrella. It had the trademark diamond-shaped pattern and logo and, unlike Ahmet’s watch, I didn’t think it was fake. I was quite surprised she had agreed to come. She didn’t often socialise with the rest of the company, but perhaps, on the first night, she felt she couldn’t let the others down.

I had barely spoken to her at the party and congratulated her on her performance. ‘I thought you were great tonight.’

‘Did you? I don’t know …’

Why did she have to be so unenthusiastic? ‘I think the audience enjoyed it.’

‘Maybe.’ She didn’t sound convinced.

Fortunately, we were rescued by Keith, who stepped out of his cramped, awkwardly shaped office carrying a white box. ‘This came for you,’ he said. He handed it to me.

It was a first-night present with a label wishing me good luck, signed by Ahmet. Sky was looking at it dubiously but I have to say I was rather touched. I opened and took out an object tightly wrapped in tissue paper. I tore off the paper to reveal, of all things, an ornamental dagger, about twenty centimetres long, in a black leather sheath. The blade was silver and very sharp. The handle was wooden, embossed with a circular, metallic medallion decorated with what might have been Celtic knotwork. It looked like an old Scottish dirk, although it was obviously a reproduction and not very well made. The medallion wobbled when I touched it.