CHAPTER 7
‘Hmm.’ Pause. ‘Hmm.’
Further pause.
‘Hmm.’
I edged up beside Parker, who was frowning in the corner of the hall.
‘What’s that man doing?’ I whispered.
We both watched a man in overalls look very closely at a flaking bit of plaster on one of the walls. He gave it a brisk tap, and a cloud of dust fell into his beard. He had a very fine, very large beard, but luckily it was white. He didn’t seem to notice, at any rate.
‘Hmm,’ the man said.
‘Hmm,’ Parker echoed. ‘He’s looking over the building. To find out what needs doing. Before we get the builders in.’
‘Oh, I see. Has he said what needs doing yet?’
Parker looked worried.
‘All he does is hum. I think humming will be expensive.’
‘Poor Parker. It’s lucky you’re so rich, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm.’
‘By the bye, have you heard anything about Pope?’
‘Hmm?’
‘The play. Have they said if the Duke is happy with the play yet?’
There was a long pause as Parker searched his memory, and then was distracted by the bearded man, and forgot then remembered my question.
‘Oh. Yes, I think so. Yes, I’m sure they have.’
‘Thank heavens for that.’ I gave him a peck on the cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice.
I made my way up the stairs and almost bumped into Father, who was standing outside his studio, arms folded, glaring down the stairs towards nothing in particular.
‘Still can’t find your sketchbook?’ I asked, giving him a kiss on the brow.
‘Nor Jackson, nor your mother.’ He ground his teeth and looked about ready to stamp his foot. ‘God knows how they expect me to get any work done. And God only knows how I’m going to get these damned paintings ready for the exhibiton.’
‘One painting, sweetheart.’ I reassured him. ‘You only need one.’
He rubbed a hand over his forehead.
‘Stress. Stress is the antithesis of art, Evey. I can’t work under these conditions.’
We heard another tap from the hallway below, a shower of dust, and a succession of three very loud sneezes. Then another loud and very deliberate “Hmm.”
Father turned to me with eyes narrowed to slits.
‘Augustine doesn’t have to work in these conditions. People want to model for him. He gets treated with a bit of respect.’
He turned on his heel then and stormed into his studio, leaving me staring after him like he was a stranger. Father had never lost his temper. Not even when Mother had done things that were particularly bad, he wasn’t ever angry. Just hurt, like one of those sad-looking wrinkly dogs you sometimes see with very rich old ladies.
I felt a little hurt, but I supposed it wasn’t aimed at me, and he must be under a great deal of pressure. And Mother and Jackson could be infuriating.
I made my way to my study, where Andrew and Annie were waiting for me.
The Lock was almost converted to something resembling a play, but I was at that point in the creative process where all words looked the same and I had no idea whether anything I had written even made sense, never mind being anything approaching good.
I had scheduled in a reading for the following day, and had enlisted Annie and Andrew’s help in writing out copies of all the lines. We were using Shakespeare’s method of only writing the lines each player needed, but rather than using this as a way to combat plagiarism, this was merely an issue of time.
Nonetheless, we were hindered by a lack of desk space, and the fact that I, a person of average height, was forced to share very close quarters with two people of exceptional tallness. Their elbows and knees were everywhere that my limbs needed to be, and I ruined three sheets of paper and two nibs before ten minutes were out. Such a temper was I in, that when Michael appeared at my door, I was not in the mood to grant him an audience.
‘Is now a convenient time?’ he asked, pleasantly. He smiled, and bowed to Annie and Andrew. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Michael Bailey – of The Yorkshire Advocate.’
Annie fluttered her lashes at him, and unfolded her legs, standing to greet him. There was a good few inches difference on her side. He bowed over her hand, and she fluttered appropriately, but mouthed ‘all yours,’ as she turned back towards me to resume her seat.
Andrew also rose, and shook Michael’s hand.
‘I’d reckon you’re rather handy with a pen and ink, aren’t you?’
Michael blinked a few times, before nodding.
‘Occupational hazard. Have to be a fast writer.’
‘Excellent!’ Andrew clapped him on the back. ‘You can take my spot and we’ll be done in half the time. I’m Andrew, by the way, but I’m sure we’ll talk more once rehearsals are underway. Come on Annie, let’s leave these two to it, shall we?’
‘Your dedication to the play and, indeed, the future of this entire company is touching,’ I shouted after them, bristling with sarcasm.
‘I really am a very fast writer, you know,’ Michael said with one of his smiles.
‘Fast and legible?’ I asked, doubtfully.
‘Beautifully.’
I gestured to him to take the seat which had lately been Andrew’s, across the desk from me. Instead, he chose Annie’s. His knee brushed mine as he sat.
‘Why are you in the smallest room in the building?’ he asked conversationally, drawing a blank page before him.
‘We were going to move, but Parker’s showing a bearded gentleman how much everything is falling apart, so we decided to stay out of the way. That said, I hadn’t realised quite how many limbs those two possessed.’
‘You did look like three peas in a pod. You were the small one.’ He smiled, and I was caught in the light for a moment. ‘What do you need me to do?’
I explained the concept and pulled my master copy so it lay between the two of us. He was to start with Umbriel and Ariel’s lines, while I worked on the Narrator’s. He leaned towards the centre to read the words, and I could smell his hair. It was definitely like apples. Nobody’s hair smelled of apples. I breathed in deeply, feigning a sigh to try and smell it again without him thinking me a fool. Definitely apples.
‘You smell like violets,’ Michael said conversationally, leaning over to pick up the next sheet.
I coughed.
‘It’s true. I do.’
I looked at his hands, too. We’d sat side by side before, but never like this. Never leaning in towards one another. The fingers weren’t long, but they looked strong. I imagined them touching me. That was the point, wasn’t it? This seduction. That was what it was leading to. Touching one another. How strange that it had never seemed so real before. That I had never realised that it would actually involve those hands. I had been touched before, and none of what may be coming would be new to me – but with him? Now I realised what it would involve, I suddenly felt less confident in my powers.
‘Thank you for your help with this,’ I said, because he turned to me, and I realised I hadn’t written anything for a while. ‘It wasn’t what you came for, was it? Who were you here to see today?’
‘Nobody in particular. But I thought you could point me in the right direction. There are still a few people I have yet to meet, although now I’ve seen Annie and Andrew, I imagine they’ll be next. And I have a feeling you’ll probably be involved in any interviewing I do. You have been so far.’
I shot a quick glance at him to see if he was being rude, but his face was a placid mask. I started writing again, scribbling quickly to catch up. He was already a sheet ahead of me.
‘I like to be involved. And at the moment, I’m the only one who knows what’s going on.’
‘What is going on?’
‘Not much. Would you like to come to the read through tomorrow? Unless you think it’d spoil the story for you?’
I wanted to see him again, I decided. I wanted to see him in a room with all of my closest friends, and to see if he was so good then. If he was so calm, and interesting. And I wanted him to see me at work, and in control. That would be wonderful.