Stage Fright Read online

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Epigraphs

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Copyright

  ‘He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’

  Beyond Good and Evil, Friedrich Nietzsche

  ‘Dead! and … never called me mother.’

  (East Lynne, by Mrs Henry Wood, dramatized by T. A. Palmer)

  Acknowledgements

  THE Everyman Theatre is a product of my imagination. Readers who know Cambridge will realize that I have placed it on the site of the old Festival Theatre on Newmarket Road. (Thanks to Carola Hicks for that idea). Sadly since I began writing this novel, the shop, the Racquet Kings, has closed down.

  Earlier ideas and drafts were much improved by the comments of Peter Blundell Jones, Sara Dunant, Sue Hepworth, Amanda Rainger, Gillian Slovo and Jonathan Waller. My thanks to them all.

  I learnt a lot about the practicalities of rehearsal from Alan Ayckbourn, Heather Stoney, and the cast and crew of This is Where We Came In, who very kindly allowed me to sit in on their rehearsals. It was a fascinating experience. I need hardly add that none of them bear the remotest resemblance to any of the characters in this novel.

  I greatly appreciate Jude Liebert’s generosity in allowing me to draw on her many years of experience in the theatre. Paula Shirley kindly shared with me her knowledge of documentary film-making and much else. Last but not least, I am grateful to Roger Forsdyke and Sandra Perry for advising on aspects of police procedure.

  Chapter One

  I can pinpoint exactly the moment that everything started to go wrong. It was when I saw Stephen’s car parked outside the house.

  Up until then it had been a perfect day. The rehearsal had gone like a dream and as I drove home across the fens, a warm breeze flowed in through the open windows of the car. It was one of those rare August days that has a Mediterranean quality. The vast fenland fields stretched out on either side of me, golden in the haze of mid-afternoon, and far off in the distance a tiny tractor moved in a cloud of wheat dust.

  The motion of the car had worked its usual magic on Grace and she was fast asleep. She wasn’t an easy baby to settle, but one thing you could say about her: when she did at last drop off, not much short of an earthquake would wake her. I slipped a tape into the cassette-player. A bass voice and a soprano swooped and soared, mingled briefly and parted, as they sang of the love of a woman for a man, of a parent for a child, of passion and pain and renunciation. It was the scene in La Traviata where Alfredo’s father pleads with the courtesan Violetta to renounce his son.

  The Old Granary, where I live, is a few miles south-east of Ely. And it was as I bumped down the long rutted track to the house that I spotted Stephen’s Audi. I hardly had time to wonder what he was doing home so early, because the next instant a dark shape shot out of the bushes by the gate. I’d swerved before I knew what I was doing. The gatepost loomed up in front of me. I was about to stamp on the brake, when I thought, Grace! She was buckled into her car seat, but … I hauled the wheel round, missing the post by a hair’s breadth. The car lurched and shuddered over the ruts of the track. It was heading for the water channel that runs through the garden and under the house. Now I did slam the brakes on and the car juddered to a standstill.

  I turned to look at Grace. She was still safely strapped in. Her eyes and mouth were round with astonishment, but she didn’t make a sound. The breath had been jolted out of her. The cassette player was still belting out La Traviata. Violetta on her deathbed was pouring out her love for Alfredo. I reached over with trembling fingers and switched off the music. I got out of the car. I was breathing hard, and my legs were so wobbly that I had to lean against the bonnet. A few more inches and we would have plunged down through the reeds and chickweed into two feet of water.

  I looked back. A black-and-white collie dog was loping away, its tail between its legs. It disappeared round a bend in the track. Silence settled over the garden and the surrounding fields. I could smell the fragrance of grass crushed under the car wheels. The dustbin by the gate had been knocked over and across the lawn there was a trail of chicken hones, tin cans, and shreds of kitchen roll.

  The door of the house opened and Stephen appeared on the doorstep. Grace got her breath back and began to wail.

  ‘Cass, what’s happened?’ He came running towards me.

  ‘A dog. Ran straight out in front of me.’

  He put his arm round me and I leaned against him.

  ‘Are you all right? And Grace…?’

  ‘She’s just shocked, I think.’

  By now she was yelling her head off. Stephen opened the back door of the car and reached in to unbuckle her.

  ‘Come on, little one,’ he crooned. He lifted her out and hoisted her on to his shoulder.

  ‘I’ve already chased that bloody dog away once this afternoon,’ he told me. ‘Found it rummaging in the bin when I got home.’

  ‘A stray?’

  ‘Looks too well fed for that. Must be from one of the farms.’

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ I asked. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. But I got an urgent call this afternoon. I’ve got to go away for a few days.’

  These business trips had been happening increasingly often of late. Stephen is a partner in a small firm of solicitors that specializes in patent law. With the growth of Silicon Fen over the last few years, their business had expanded.

  ‘A night or two in London?’ I asked.

  ‘’Fraid not.’ He wasn’t meeting my eye.

  ‘Well, where then?’

  ‘Los Angeles.’

  ‘Los Angeles!’ I was astonished. ‘But why? And when are you leaving?’

  ‘I’ve got to fly out today. A taxi’s coming to take me to the airport in half an hour.’

  * * *

  Stephen placed a neatly folded pile of white shirts in the top of the suitcase which was lying open on the bed.

  ‘But – Los Angeles!’ I said for at least the fifth time. A new thought occurred to me. ‘But why can’t Rod go?’

  ‘He’s in court tomorrow with that breach of copyright case.’

  So that was that. They were a two-man firm. If Stephen’s partner couldn’t go, there was no one else to send.

  ‘In any case it’s me they want,’ Stephen went on. ‘I’ve got more experience in this area than Rod. Cass, it’ll mean a lot to the firm if they start putting business our way. I won’t be away long.’

  ‘There couldn’t be a worse time. The play opens in a week. The next few days are going to be frantic!’

  ‘I know, I know. But now that Grace is getting settled in the nursery, it should make things a bit easier.
She’s not a tiny baby any more, after all.’ He picked up a handful of socks and stuffed them down inside the case. ‘Look, why don’t you have your mother to stay, if she can get the time off work?’

  ‘She’s going away herself. You know that perfectly well. She’s leaving in a couple of days to visit that friend of hers in Hong Kong.’ I found myself close to tears.

  Stephen bit his lip. ‘Oh Lord. I hadn’t realized that it was quite so soon.’

  We looked at each other across the bed.

  ‘I am sorry, love,’ he said, ‘but you’ll be all right, won’t you? I mean, I’d feel differently if you were completely on your own out here, but Melissa and Kevin are only just across the way.…’

  To give myself time to calm down, I went over to the window and looked out. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, just a huge expanse of empty sky. On this side of the house the long, flat vista of the fens stretched out to the horizon, a flat line punctuated by an occasional tree. About half a mile across the fields I could see the cottage which our new friends had rented, or at least the little clump of trees that surrounded it.

  Grace gave a little cry of discovery. I turned to look. I’d propped her among the pillows and she’d managed to get hold of Stephen’s deodorant. When she saw that she had our attention, she gave a big gummy smile. Stephen uncurled her fingers and took the deodorant from her. She wailed and gestured wildly at him. He rummaged around on the bed and found Woolly Bear, her favourite toy. When she saw it her face brightened. Stephen sat down on the bed and put her on his knee. She leaned against him, closed her eyes, and sucked on the ear of her bear.

  Stephen looked tired. Fatherhood at forty was taking it out of him. He put up a hand and pushed back the thick dark hair that had flopped over his forehead. For the first time I noticed a few grey hairs. I felt a rush of affection for him. I was just opening my mouth to say something conciliatory when the phone on the bedside table rang. We both looked at it.

  ‘Shall I?’ I said.

  ‘Please. It might be Geraldine from the office.’

  But when I picked up the receiver, the voice on the end of the line was male and had a slight Birmingham accent.

  ‘You – or your partner – filled in a questionnaire about holidays and if your details are correct, you have won a holiday…’ There was a slight reverberation and a buzz of background noise.

  Stephen gave me a look of enquiry. I shook my head.

  ‘I didn’t fill in a form,’ I told the man on the phone.

  ‘Your partner then.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If you could just answer some questions. Have you and your partner been together more than a year?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Mainline Promotions. It is Mr James and Ms Cassandra at this address?’

  James is my surname. Stephen’s is Newley.

  ‘How did you get this number? I’m ex-directory,’ I said.

  Click. He’d hung up.

  ‘Another cold caller?’ Stephen asked.

  I nodded. ‘We must be on some mailing list.’

  We were silent for a moment, then we both spoke at once.

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘The thing is…’

  ‘You first,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I flew off the handle. I can manage for a few days, of course I can. It was just a bit of a shock.’

  ‘I don’t want to turn any work away if I can help it. The more secure things are financially, the better. We’ve got Grace to think of now and then if we…’ He hesitated.

  ‘Stephen, you earn plenty. And there’s still my job,’ I reminded him. ‘My maternity leave will be over soon and I’ll be back at work.’

  ‘I know, I know, but that’s part of it, too.’ He joggled Grace up and down. ‘It’s such a rat-race now, academic life, isn’t it? You’ve often said so. And not very secure. You nearly lost your job last year. You had a terrible time.’

  Stephen was right about my job. And it hadn’t been all I’d nearly lost. The head of the English department at St Etheldreda’s College had died in what at first seemed to be an accident. I had taken over and had struggled to save the department from closure. It wasn’t until someone else had died that I finally discovered the truth, and on that same foggy February night six months ago I’d gone into labour. Stephen and the emergency services had struggled to reach me, and Grace had actually been born here in my study at home.

  ‘But that was such an extraordinary one-off event,’ I said.

  ‘But the pressures and strains that triggered it all off – they were typical enough, weren’t they?’

  I was saved from answering by the sound of a car horn. I went over to the window and looked down.

  ‘The taxi’s here.’

  Stephen put Grace back on the bed and stood up. He looked around the room.

  ‘Oh God, have I got everything?’

  ‘Bathroom things? Razor, toothbrush?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Passport, money, tickets?’

  He patted his pockets and nodded. ‘And I’ve left the hotel details on the table by the phone.’

  He came round the bed to kiss me. We hugged each other tightly, then pulled back to look into each other’s eyes. I really didn’t want him to go.

  ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I get there. And I won’t be away long.’

  ‘How long exactly? You didn’t say.’

  He looked away.

  ‘Stephen? How long?’

  ‘I won’t be sure until I see how much there is to do.’ He tried to gather me into his arms again.

  I stepped back and held him at arm’s length. ‘But you will be back by the end of the week? For when the play opens?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, of course I will. But I can’t leave until the contracts are signed. Look, I’m doing it for us, for you and Grace, and we’ll need the money even more if…’ He broke off.

  ‘If what?’

  My raised voice disturbed Grace. She looked up at me and frowned. Stephen opened his mouth to speak and closed it again.

  ‘If what?’ I repeated.

  ‘Well, if – oh, look, Cass, this really isn’t the moment, I’ve got to go. I’ll miss the flight.’ He picked up his case.

  I grabbed his arm. ‘If what, Stephen?’

  ‘Well, if we … what if we…’ Stephen said. I hated the way he did that, the pedantic way he had of hesitating while he looked for the right words before he spoke. I felt a surge of irritation so intense that I wanted to slap him.

  ‘Tell me!’

  Grace started to whimper. Outside the car horn sounded again. That seemed to make Stephen’s mind up. ‘All right then. If we have another baby, we’ll need the money. And if we’re going to have another baby, we’ll have to do it soon, won’t we? I mean, you’ll be forty in December.’

  Grace let out a yell. I lifted her up to comfort her. But it was too late. Her eyes bulged, her mouth opened wide, and she let out howl after howl of misery and protest. I had to raise my voice to be heard over her screams.

  If I hadn’t been so unnerved by the accident I’d nearly had, I’d probably have kept my mouth shut. I knew it was a mistake even before I’d finished speaking.

  ‘It’s about time you got your priorities right. Stuff the money! If you want me to even consider having another baby, you’d bloody well better be back in time for the opening!’

  Chapter Two

  ‘HE’S not going to die, is he?’ Lady Isabel asked.

  Her voice faltered and her face was pitifully white in the dim light of the cavernous room. Archibald was sitting beside her on the sofa. He hesitated, and before he could reply there was a sound somewhere behind them.

  Isabel gave a start and put her hand on his arm.

  ‘What was that? I thought I heard a noise.’

  ‘There’s something flapping at the window!’

  They turned and peered into the gloom.

  ‘A bat. I think that
’s all it is,’ Archibald said. ‘It must have mistaken its way. There it is again.’ He sprang to his feet and moved towards the window.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said. ‘There are hundreds of them!’

  Isabel followed him and put her hand on his arm.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she cried. ‘Perhaps it’s an ill omen. Oh, Mr Carlyle. I’m so afraid … my dear father. He’s all I have in the whole world.’

  He took her hands in his. ‘It’s all right. Look, they’re leaving now.’

  They stood together in silence. There was the sound of footsteps approaching. A stout middle-aged woman appeared.

  ‘Mrs Mason!’ Isabel’s face lit up. ‘How is he? Can I go to him now?’

  The woman didn’t speak. Her eyes sought Archihald’s and a look passed between them.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Isabel took a step hack. She stretched out her hands imploringly. Her eyes turned up, the whites glistening in the dim light. Archibald caught her as she fainted and lowered her to the sofa.

  ‘Go and get her maid,’ he told the housekeeper.

  The woman didn’t move. She simply stood there staring at him.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he said sharply.

  ‘Oh, sir, I hardly know how to tell you. Lord Mount Severn’s dead, but that’s not the worst of it, sir. There’s two men, coarse-looking brutes, they tricked the kitchen-maid to letting them into the house.…’

  ‘Bailiffs, I suppose,’ he said with a sigh. He sat back on the sofa, took one of Isabel’s hands in his and gently rubbed it. ‘Poor child. They might at least have waited until after the funeral. I’ll come and deal with them presently.’

  Still she stood staring at him with huge eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter, woman?’

  ‘Oh, sir, they say they’ve … there isn’t going to be a funeral!’

  Archibald stared at her. ‘No funeral?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But why ever not?’

  ‘Oh, sir, they’ve come to arrest the corpse!’

  Tring, tring! There was a sharp, tinny sound which resolved itself into a jaunty rendition of the first lines of Für Elise.

  Archibald froze. A moment later, Isabel sat up. Only they weren’t Archibald and Isabel any more. It was like one of those trick drawings which you can see as an old crone or a beautiful young woman. One moment the figure on the stage was handsome Archibald Carlyle, mid-Victorian sex symbol, the next he was Clive Ashton, slightly creased middle-aged actor. He was wearing jeans and a black frock-coat so old that it was almost green. Isabel, who was now Melissa Meadow, also seemed to have got suddenly older, though she remained slender and blonde. She was wearing a white T-shirt over which a corset was laced and black cotton trousers. Slung around her waist was a rehearsal crinoline, a contraption like a kind of flexible bird cage, made of a series of metal hoops attached to each other by tapes. Mrs Mason had changed, too. She had become the dear old character actress Celia Durant, familiar from dozens of TV costume dramas. All three of them were staring at me.