The Disappearance Boy (11 page)

The boy was good, though. Never dropped a stitch, never hurried her, never made her feel like she was in the wrong place. And he was doing a very professional job on the alterations to her outfits. Didn’t talk much, but never mind.

When she woke up on the Sunday morning and checked herself in Mrs Brennan’s grimy bathroom mirror, Pam saw that the bruises on her forearms had thickened. It looked as if someone had tried to take a stick to her face and she’d flung up her arms to protect herself.

Wrapping her grubby baby-pink dressing gown back around herself, she went back upstairs to her bedroom and dragged the bigger of her two suitcases down from the top of the wardrobe. Then she dug around till she found a pair of balled-up white evening gloves; sitting down on the edge of her bed, she pulled them on and tried out a few poses, pulling her dressing gown down around her shoulders to mimic the low neckline of the ball gown. It would be two more things to get on in the change, but God knows she’d got dressed in a hurry enough times in her life. Besides, he hadn’t called them in for this extra Sunday room-above-a-pub rehearsal until half ten this morning, so she still had time for a bit of practice.

She slid the gloves off, balled them up again, and lay back on the bed. One last day of rehearsal today, then a run-through with a pianist tomorrow afternoon, onstage; she was almost there. She must remember to thank Reg for fixing the tear in that underskirt after she’d ripped it again in her change. And to find somewhere that sold her
eau de parfum
tomorrow. And to eat.

What was it that Brookes had said to her yesterday?
Don’t make the mistake of trying to think. It’s your body that has to do the work, not your head
.

She closed her eyes. Christ, she’d be glad when tomorrow night was over.

4

When it came to it, no one would have ever known it was her first time – if you know what I mean. The second comic had got the house nicely warmed up after the interval; the Karloffs went down very well with their slow-motion acrobatics, Lorraine and her mirror proved as effective as that sort of speciality always is if the presentation is first class, and Madame Valentine’s girls got a very respectable round from the stalls at the end of their first number. All of this meant that Mr Brookes had plenty of atmosphere to walk on into, which always gave him a spring in his step. He was groomed as impeccably as ever of course – not a sign of nerves – and brought off the first visible vanish with the gloves especially neatly, getting the house’s interest straight away. Mr Clifford kept everything good and lively in the pit, and the cymbals and drums and the first wolf whistle were all timed right on the nose.

Pam’s French Maid was a bit hesitant on her entrance, but that more or less went with the character – and she looked terrific. The first rope went on fine, and Mr Brookes was pleased; no big laughs so far, but no discernible dip in interest either. Then, when he lifted Pam up onto the chair for the rope round her ankles, things started to pick up. Reggie’s refitting of her black satin skirt had made it tight in all the right places, and as he looped and twisted the rope Mr Brookes could feel a definite sharpening of attention out front. Then came the lift, the carry, and the three high-heeled backwards hops up the stairs. It really isn’t a move for an amateur, and especially not for one carrying that extra bit of flesh around the top and hips – however, good girl; not only did Pam manage it keeping perfect time with the band, but she hit her pose on the top step with real aplomb, eyes stretched wide and
Maiden in Distress
written all over her face. Only Mr Brookes could see the beads of sweat on her neck. She shuffled inside, and waited.

This was it, then.

Brookes had taken the precautionary measure of asking Mr Clifford not to hit the tempo too hard when the band cut into their key change, and when it came to the cue he closed the cabinet doors a tad more more gently than he would have done on its previous incumbent. He did it, you might say,
politely
. Pamela stayed as calm as she had always known she would have to, and when the darkness snapped shut around her, wasted no time. Using the muffled cover of the music to keep up a steady continuo of obscenities under her breath, she slipped the ropes, ripped off her skirt, passed her shoes and skirt and cap behind her to Reggie, hoisted her knees, punched her breath out, closed her eyes, counted to two for Reg to open the trap – and dropped.

The moment before she landed, the old feelings rushed up to meet her stomach; that there wouldn’t be a floor, that she was going to drop for ever, and that there’d be dark water waiting for her instead of metal.

It was a long moment – but then the cabinet bottom smacked against her stockinged feet and her body barged all thought out of the way; working almost by themselves, her hands pushed open the hinged panel and found the two metal struts under the treads. An unidentified roaring in her head was threatening to drown out the vital guiding thread of the music now, but she made it. When the steps started moving, she almost threw up – the sudden lurch took her completely by surprise. But she braced herself, hard, and next thing she knew a young stage-hand who she wasn’t actually sure she’d ever met before was offering her a strong and very nicely turned arm by way of a lift up and out, and suddenly she was dashing down the stage-left wing trying to find her quick-change mirror, ripping open her blouse as she went and trying not to giggle as she suddenly and idiotically remembered another occasion entirely when she’d done that with her blouse and a mirror and a nice young man she didn’t really know. She wished she could slap herself. The music seemed oddly slow and distant, and she seemed to be dressing someone else. She found herself muttering apologies as she stepped into the gown, clawed at the zipper, pulled her wig straight (was that right?) pulled on the gloves, swallowed, stamped her left foot into its shoe, grabbed the fur, grabbed the bottle, lifted the glass – and realised as she looked at the overdressed stranger in the pier glass that she felt completely, bizarrely and unnaturally calm. So calm that she hadn’t even noticed that the only sound now ringing in her ears definitely
was
the sound of her own pumping blood, because the world around her had gone suddenly quiet.

The music had stopped.

The stranger in the cloudy mirror widened her eyes, apparently as surprised as she was that this point in the evening had arrived already.

She turned her head, and saw Mr Brookes’s naked right hand dispersing a wreath of pink-and-orange smoke. One fingertip abraded another, and she didn’t have time to think.

The lights slapped her as firmly across the face as the wind off the sea had slapped at Reggie; however, unlike Reg, Pam smiled. Then, as she felt the weight of the fitted maroon satin swinging from her hips, she realised that the clatter of applause she could hear was for her, and three paces onto the stage an exhilaration as strong as two double Scotches coursed across her exposed skin, making her face burn under her make-up and almost knocking her off her shoes. She resisted her natural impulse, which was to toss back her head and laugh, and leaned into her stride instead, lifting the
coupe
of ginger ale as she went, determined not to fuck up at the last minute. As he took the shaking glass from her outstretched hand, Mr Brookes’s eyes clipped hers with a blaze of warning, telegraphing an exactly judged mix of encouragement and threat. She got the message, sobered up, turned front, shared a suitably decorous variety of smiles with the ladies and gentlemen in the stalls and circle while Mr Brookes did his stuff with the gloves and cane and hat and ropes, then took his proffered hand and brought off her last four moves like a real pro – dip, change places, dip and upstage turn; gloves smooth, rubies bright, hair shining, fox clutched, chin lifted and lips softly gleaming throughout – everything, in fact, as it should be, from that well-turned ankle to those perfectly moulded collarbones. Miss Pamela
Rose
, would you mind, out on the town for the evening with her gentleman. Bloody marvellous. I thank you!

The applause continued after the tabs had hit the deck, but Pam couldn’t hear it. She could only hear the sound of her own unsuccessfully stifled laughter as the relief hit her like a train. She gasped.

‘Thank you – I – God – I –’

‘Not bad for a first show,’ said Mr Brookes, plucking a clean handkerchief from its black wool-and-mohair lair and busily wiping his hands. He lifted his empty champagne glass to Pamela with a small nod of appreciation, which wasn’t something Reg had ever seen him do before, not with any of the girls.

‘God, it happens fast once it starts –’

She tried turning upstage to thank Reggie, but that was all she had time for; the stagehands were already folding up the cabinet and wheeling it away, the drapes that hid the Montmartre backdrop were flying, the lights were changing to their allotted French twilight and the Maureen O’Hara lookalike who led Madame Valentine’s thirteen Parisian lovelies was mouthing a not-quite-genteel
Would you mind, dear?
at Pam and pushing her out of the way as the girls found their marks for their second spot in a flurry of talc and damped-down drapery and not a lot else. Suddenly Pamela stumbled; Mr Brookes caught her and guided her through the melee to the wings, one hand at her elbow, the other in the small of her back. Reg’s eyes flicked between the two hands. He’d been worried about getting that dress to fit, especially around her top half, but although he said it himself his hard work with the pressing iron had paid off, and she and Mr Brookes made a fine pair. The curtain rose, the syrupy rendition of Rina Ketty’s ‘J’Attendrai’ headed for its first chorus out in the pit, and the lights spilling into the wings caught at Pam’s bright, wide eyes.

‘Ah, Reg,’ said Mr Brookes, releasing her and wiping his hands again. ‘A little easier on the flash powder for the second show if you don’t mind – any more smoke, and I’d have been buggered on the set-up for the reveal.’ Then he shot his cuffs, and headed into the darkness as if he had a taxi to hail.

‘Blimey, don’t get much out of that one, do you?’ panted Pam as she stared after his back, her breasts still rising and falling as the music swelled.

‘Trust me,’ said Reg, grinning, and forgetting to hide his teeth, ‘you do if you get it bloody wrong.’

Of course, exhilaration doesn’t last – and once it goes, the pain seeps in to take its place. Reg knew that, and after the second show he limped his way upstairs to make sure his new colleague was all right. He’d left it a good twenty minutes, but found her still staring at herself in her mirror, the ball gown ballooning up around her in a froth of underskirts. That newspaper clipping from last week was still pinned up on the mirror frame, Reggie noticed.

‘I thought those gloves might need a rinse,’ he said gently. ‘Want you looking your best again tomorrow, don’t we?’

Pamela groaned.

‘Oh Christ, I’m tired. Twice in one night.’

She was looking at herself as if she was trying to work out who she was. He knew that look – the one where your body won’t move.

‘Want me to unzip you? – that satin creases rotten when it’s sat on too long.’

‘Sorry …’

He helped her up.

‘Don’t worry. Once you hear that music again tomorrow it’ll all kick back in. That’s how it works … Wig first. That’s it –’

They worked together just like they did in the act – but slower now, and gently. Pam pulled off her wig, Reggie found and released her zipper, she steadied herself on his shoulder, then he held the bodice down and open so that she could step free of its bones. The room was small, and hot, and soon she was just in her shoes and underwear, but Pam had had too many men watch her undress in the course of her life to mind about that. Besides, this was work, and she was tired. It was nice to be with someone who knew how to lift off a frock for once. She prised off the shoes, then reached back and unhooked her bra.

‘Run me some hot water, would you, Reg? There’s a bowl and some Dettol under the sink.’

For his part, Reg was unembarrassed too. He didn’t stare, but he didn’t feel that he shouldn’t be there. He liked that she didn’t mind him helping.

Pamela checked the worst of her scrapes, and wrung out a hand towel in the steaming, milky water. The reassuring smell of the disinfectant filled the room. Dragging the cloth along an outstretched arm, she inspected herself. The dark flaws in the alabaster would fade once she’d learnt how to avoid knocking herself so often, she knew that, and soon she’d be back to her trademark whiteness. There was no major harm done. But the long gloves looked good, actually, especially with that fur over the dress; white on white on white, with the burgundy underneath. Maybe she’d keep them … She glanced up at Margaret Rose, and when she did that she could see Reggie at work behind her in the mirror. He was reaching up and flattening out the underlayers of netting, making sure the gown was hanging right on the back of the door and that nothing needed steaming or pressing or stitching before tomorrow. He cared more about that bloody dress than she did, she thought – and she must remember to lift it when she was coming up the backstage stairs between the shows, because she’d nearly caught her toe again tonight.

‘Thanks for fixing that hem again for me, Reg,’ she said, wringing the rag out. ‘I promise I’ll get the hang of the step-in soon.’

The water dropped through the bright light from the bulbs around the mirror; mislaid rhinestones, falling. Tears.

‘You’re welcome.’

Watching him work, it occurred to her that it was funny how she still thought of him as a boy even when you could see that he wasn’t one at all, not when you were alone in a small room with him. Somehow he didn’t seem to have any of that hardness men always seemed to acquire – the ones who earned their living around women, anyway. Maybe it was something to do with his foot. It did make him … well,
special
was the word that came into her head, though she couldn’t really say why. Silly word – you couldn’t say that to his face, not without him thinking you were treating him like a kid. She draped an arm up over her head, wiping the sweat out of her blue-stubbled armpit and from under her breast with the dribbling rag. Reggie had turned now, and was watching her. She didn’t mind; for once, the light from the naked bulbs seemed kind. They were both looking tired in the same way, she thought, she under her slap, he under that odd gypsy tan of his. The water ran down her skin into her lap. When she spoke, it was gently.