CHAPTER 2
Five weeks remaining.
I had pasted the cuttings into the back of my big notebook, on a long strip of paper that folded in a concertina and tucked beneath the cover. I had studied them for days, and knew most of the words by heart, but now I had met him, they seemed to read differently.
There was the story about the robbery that ended in murder, the ship that went down off the Devonshire coast with all hands, that touching piece about that girl who died giving birth, having been turned out by her family. Accidental explosions, bar brawls, collapses in coal mines and theatres going up in flames. I shivered. Michael had written all of these pieces. There was nothing about the theatre among them. No piece of frivolity, anyway, and the only mention of the arts was a piece from a few months earlier when a Colin Christopher painting had been destroyed at the Houses of Parliament. Michael’s piece had focused on the poor soldier who had been dismissed for failing in his duty to protect it.
I didn’t like it. It made me feel as though we were a tragedy waiting to happen and that Michael was merely waiting to witness it. He might be the bringer of destruction, and bad things preceded all of his actions. Fanciful? Yes, but we theatre folk are a suspicious lot.
I peered more closely over the piece about the girl. It was down as being written by an M Bailey. That wasn’t a person, not really. M Bailey was an idea, a matter of ether that I could seduce and distract. Michael Bailey, on the other hand, was a well-built, broad young man, with a fine head of wavy hair that curled gently over his brow, muscular arms and a smile as bright as sunlight. He had researched each of those tragedies and spoken to those bereaved relatives.
I shook my head. Meeting him had in no way shaken my resolve to seduce him. Strengthened it, if anything. Who could bring destruction when cradled in the warm bosom of seduction? And us getting good coverage wouldn’t hurt either. Seducing him would be a pleasant diversion, and I was confident that I could distract him enough to let his guard down. M Bailey wouldn’t remain an enigma much longer – of that I was sure.
‘How was our man from the media?’
Andrew strode in, closely followed by Annie. I quickly flipped my book so it was open on some notes I had been writing the previous day.
‘Oh, you know,’ I said lightly. ‘He is but a man.’
‘How tall is he?’ Annie piped up, throwing herself sideways onto an armchair and swinging her long legs over one of the arms.
‘You’ve laddered your stocking,’ I said with a mock frown. ‘And he’s not that tall. Certainly not tall enough for you.’
Annie pouted.
‘There’s no money in journalism anyway,’ Andrew added, leaning against the door frame and frowning. ‘And they’re all parasites.’
I wondered if Michael would mention that Andrew was black when he wrote his articles. Most of the papers did when they wrote reviews, although he’d been with us for five years, so you’d have thought they’d have been used to it by that time. I didn’t mind when it was relevant to the play – it gave us a boost when we were performing Othello, for example – but it just seemed unnecessary the rest of the time, and took up valuable space in the column which could have been devoted to the actual play.
‘He’s not too bad,’ I said, eventually. ‘I don’t think he’ll ruin us, put it that way.’
‘If you don’t ruin him first.’ Annie chirped. ‘I’ve decided you can have him, Evey. He sounds too much like a louse for my liking.’
‘Too kind,’ I murmured, hoping she wouldn’t change her mind when she saw him. Still, height was height, and neither Annie nor her standards were likely to get any lower.
‘Speaking of our engagement,’ she continued, ‘have you picked a play yet?’
I groaned into my notebook.
‘There are choices. I have a shortlist. But every time I think I’ve found one, I decide the Duke will hate it.’
‘Othello,’ Andrew said with a grin. ‘I’ve not done him for ages. The Iron Duke would love it.’
‘I know, and it’s on the list for the one after this one. But it’s not really very neoclassical, is it?’
Andrew shrugged. ‘Damned themes. But I’ll hold you to having it next.’
‘I think I’m in the mood for a comedy,’ Annie said as she twisted copper strands of hair around her finger, peering closely at the ends. ‘Hamlet has sucked all the joy out of me. If I have to go mad one more time, I tell you, I’ll not be acting. Ophelia is such an enormous bore.’
‘What about Le Misanthrope?’ I asked.
‘Isn’t that French?’ Annie asked. ‘The Duke hates the French. Obviously.’
‘It was banned in France. It’s anti-French. But I’m not sure I want to risk it. I don’t think it’s quite anti-French enough.’
‘You may have a point. Cross that one off.’
It wasn’t a decision but it was progress. I scored through it violently.
‘Weren’t we considering scenes from Homer – war and things?’
Annie’s knowledge of Homer was scant, at best. Mine wasn’t much better.
‘It’s a possibility.’ I chewed at the end of my pencil. ‘But I don’t really have time to read through The Iliad and sift through it for appropriate scenes. Same with looking for a decent translation of something actually Greek. The problem is that everything’s been done – this has to be something special – something different, so it’s memorable.’
‘Your mother as Hamlet is different and memorable,’ Andrew said dryly. ‘But I somehow doubt we’ll be pursuing that much further.’
‘Well, quite,’ I said, pursing my lips. ‘Although I didn’t enjoy your Yorick.’
‘Alas!’
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream would work,’ Annie said, between biting off her split ends. ‘It’s set in ancient Athens, isn’t it?’
‘Not again,’ Andrew groaned, sagging back against the doorframe. ‘We do Midsummer all the time. Everybody does. It’s not even funny anymore. I’m not sure it ever was.’
‘So you see my problem,’ I said, ‘but since you’ve got rid of everything else on my list, it looks like it’ll have to be The Rape of the Lock.’
‘Pope?’ Andrew straightened slightly. ‘And a poem. That’s a bit more unusual. We could work with that.’
‘Precisely, and he’s dead, so I’m sure he won’t mind us bastardising his work. Presuming, of course, that the Duke’s men approve of it.’ I picked up the slim volume from the table. ‘I’ve given myself until Monday morning to figure out how we’re going to treat this, so you might want to start reading before then. Although it’ll have to look Greek, so I imagine we’ll have to repurpose a lot of the Midsummer sets.’
Andrew brightened.
‘And if we repurpose them enough, we’ll not be able to use them ever again.’
‘Every cloud, isn’t it?’ I piled my books together and stood. ‘You can have the paper now, Andrew, which is I assume what you came in for. Now nobody talk to me for the next three days, else it’ll have to be Midsummer.’