Curtain Call (2 page)

She shook her head decisively. ‘I would have remembered. Perhaps . . . you've been to the theatre recently?'

He frowned, rummaging in his memory. ‘Hmm. I saw a thing the other week called
The Second Arrangement
, at the Strand. Rather good.'

‘Ah, glad you thought so – I was in it. Hester Bonteen . . .?'

He narrowed his eyes appraisingly, and then the clouds parted. ‘
Yes
– the lover!'

Nina held up her palms in a gesture of
c'est moi
. Stephen continued to stare at her. ‘Well – may I say – I was impressed. Really. The scene where you read the letter from him . . . the lady sitting next to me was in tears.'

‘But not yourself . . .'

‘I thought I should be a man about it,' he replied. She gave a slow smile, and he read in her expression a quickening interest. Stephen held her gaze, before saying, ‘I always wonder about acting – I mean, how you do it night after night, the same thing. Doesn't it become –'

‘A bore?'

‘Yes. Just so.'

‘No – because it's a different crowd every night.' She paused. ‘They don't know what you're going to give them. Before I go on, I think of someone out there in the dark, looking at me for the first time, not knowing what to expect. That's the challenge – the excitement. It doesn't matter that you've given the performance before – it's new to
him
. Or her. You're creating this very intimate connection with complete strangers. So you see' – she gave a little laugh – ‘you can do certain things over and over without it ever becoming a bore.'

Stephen nodded. ‘Like – having a cocktail, for instance.'

‘Among other things,' she said, her eyes still on him. He sensed the moment there to be seized.

‘Well, speaking as a complete stranger, what d'you say we sneak out of here?'

‘What for?'

‘A cocktail,' he said casually.

She screwed her mouth into a pout that implied he'd misread her: much too forward of him. He was about to back away in apology when she said, ‘Why not?'

The cocktail led to dinner, which led to a nightcap at his club, and thence to a taxi to her lodgings off Baker Street. She didn't invite him in, but there was sufficient meaning in their kiss goodnight for them to know that this would not be the end of it. Two lunches together followed. The next week they had a late supper at the Ivy, right after she came offstage. The kiss afterwards lasted rather longer than the first one. That was when they decided upon this afternoon's assignation.

At the kiosk outside Russell Square Tube he bought a
Times
, his favoured shield of respectability. The Imperial's monstrous Gothic facade of egg-and-bacon terracotta peered down on him. As he went through the hotel's revolving doors he made a quick reflexive scan of the foyer, not feeling quite imperturbable. The desk manager asked for his name, and Stephen almost blundered into giving his own.

‘Ah yes, Mr Melmotte,' the man said in echo. ‘Your wife is already in residence. Do you have any luggage?'

Stephen shook his head, smiled, and went off to the lift. The busy anonymity of the clientele – travelling salesmen and pie-faced couples from the provinces – put him at ease. Ordinarily he would have preferred the Cadogan, or Claridge's, but there was a greater likelihood of running into someone he knew there.

He got out at the fourth floor and followed the rising numbers along the corridor. The door to the room – their room – was hung with a notice, DO NOT DISTURB. He hesitated, reading an ulterior meaning in the words. It wasn't too late to turn back. And yet the gravitational pull of desire mixed with curiosity was strong: he had to risk it, or else wonder till the end what might have been. He tapped so quietly on the door he felt sure she wouldn't have heard, but then from within came the soft pad of footsteps on carpet, and the door swung open.

‘Hullo,' said Nina with a wry grin. ‘That knock sounded like a small boy come to the headmaster's office for a thrashing.'

‘Mm, it was a bit feeble,' he admitted. They kissed rather awkwardly on the threshold, and he walked in. He was pleased to see they had given them a suite and put flowers on the table, as he had requested. She had opened the windows, through which the faint drone of traffic from the street drifted up. He sauntered over and peered down at Russell Square, at the plane trees and the beetling pedestrians, all heedless. Behind him she rattled the ice in her glass.

‘Thirsty?' she said brightly.

‘Parched.'

She began tipping ice cubes into a tall glass like her own, then dousing them in Scotch. She brought it over to where he stood, still gazing out of the window. He handled it absently, then took a deep swallow. A dry little chuckle escaped her.

‘Having second thoughts?'

He turned round, jolted by her intuitive stab. ‘Why d'you say that?'

‘You look rather distracted.'

‘Actually, what's bothering me,' he said with a wince, ‘are these
bloody shoes
. I think I'd better –' He went over the bed and plumped down on the edge.

‘Here, let me,' she said, kneeling down and tugging at his shoelaces. With brisk authority she plucked one foot then the other out of their leather vices. They came off with a sucking gasp.

‘Phew! That's a relief.' He began to rub his tortured feet. ‘I think this one's given me a blister . . .'

‘They did seem rather tight,' she said, raising herself next to him on the edge of the bed. Then, turning her back, she pointed to the zip on her dress. ‘Now. Perhaps you could help me get out of this.'

Afterwards, as they lay there, the sweat cooling on their skin, Nina propped herself up on an elbow. He sensed her watching him, so he kept his eyes on the ceiling. Presently, she picked up his wrist between her fingers, and after a few moments said, ‘Well, pulse is normal. Respiration seems fine, too.' Then she gave his forehead a soft tap with her knuckle. ‘Anything to worry about up here?'

‘Nothing,' he replied with a nervous half-laugh.

‘Nothing? Not even a little something?'

‘Maybe . . . a little something.'

She nodded, content not to push it any further. She traced a meditative finger around his collarbone and shoulder, then said, ‘By the way, why “Melmotte”?'

‘Oh . . . from a novel I'm reading.
The Way We Live Now
. Melmotte's a city financier, with a shady past.'

‘A scoundrel?'

‘Of course.'

She leaned over to the bedside table and looked at her wristwatch. ‘D'you have a cigarette?'

For answer he slipped out of bed and padded across to the sofa where his clothes were strewn. He checked inside his jacket, and then realised where they were: he could see the packet now, on top of his paraffin heater, back at Tite Street. ‘Damn.'

He picked up the telephone and listened to it ring at reception. After a minute or so, he hung up. ‘Hopeless. I'll have to go down to the bar.' She watched him bend down and pick up his shoes. ‘Oh God,' he groaned.

‘I'll go,' she said, throwing back the covers and springing out. ‘Save you crippling yourself.'

He tossed the shoes away, and gave her a look of rueful adoration. ‘Darling, you're a brick.'

‘I know,' she said, wriggling into her camisole. ‘Aren't you lucky?'

The impudent glance that accompanied this remark made him laugh. He folded himself onto the sofa, admiring the unselfconscious speed with which she dressed. The acting life, he supposed. When she had gone he picked up her thin mulberry-coloured cardigan, jumbled among his own apparel, and held it to his face. He inhaled a scent of Jicky, tobacco and indefinable notes of
her
. The thing inflamed him with a sudden tenderness towards its owner. Then a noise at the window diverted him: a pigeon was clockworking along the ledge. The window was still ajar, and Stephen went over to shoo it away: the last thing they wanted was a bird in the room. He leaned out for another look at Russell Square, subtly altered from earlier, the traffic thickening towards rush hour, the light becoming bluish-grey. The lamplighters would be out soon.

It was odd, he thought, how people changed when they were out of their clothes. Prior to this afternoon, Nina had revealed a character of Olympian self-possession. That first night, while he had been all charm, she had been cool to the point of unfriendliness, wrong-footing him with her conversational feints and jabs. If he hadn't felt such an overpowering physical compulsion he might have been inclined to shake hands and walk away. True, she had warmed up a little in the half-dozen times they had met since, but he still caught in her eyes a hawkish scrutiny that froze him in his tracks. Before today he wasn't absolutely sure that she even
liked
him. So it was a surprise that, this afternoon, in bed, she had been geniality itself. Whatever else you were in bed, you could not be ambiguous.

He'd known a few theatre people in his time, and had found them to be garrulous egomaniacs and needy bores. Nina seemed different; she wasn't fragile and she didn't go fishing for praise, however willingly he would have bestowed it. Perhaps she had become adept at concealing that mad streak that so afflicted her profession – she was an actress, after all –

The door opened, and the moment he saw her he knew something was wrong. The colour in her face had fled, and her eyes were glassy with shock. She took hesitant steps into the room, like a sleepwalker. Stephen came away from the window.

‘My dear, what on earth is it?'

She looked at him, distracted. ‘I've just seen something . . . quite upsetting –'

‘What? What did you see?'

He walked her over to the sofa and they sat down, knee to knee. ‘Light one for me, would you?' she said, handing him the cigarettes. ‘. . . I'd just got out of the lift and was coming up the corridor when I heard this awful frightened' – she shook her head – ‘
pleading
. A woman's voice. It was coming from one of the rooms, before you turn the corner. So I stopped, went back, and this time I heard it more clearly. She was saying, begging,
No, please
, and then a low muttered voice, a man's – I knew he must be hurting her. I mean, really hurting her.' He offered her the lit cigarette, and saw her hand tremble as she drew it to her lips. ‘Well, I knocked at the door, and the noise just – stopped. I said something like, ‘Is everything all right?' and put my ear close. Silence. Then I said, quite loudly, that I was going to call reception and ask them to come up. Seconds later I heard a scuffle inside, and hurrying footsteps. The door flew open and a young woman dashed out – face white as chalk, tears, hair all over the place – sobbing, simply terrified. Before I could do anything she was past me and haring down the corridor.'

‘Good God,' Stephen murmured.

Nina stared straight ahead, concentrating. ‘There was no use chasing after her, so I walked in, rather scared, and saw a man pulling open the curtains. He turned round as he heard me, with this furious scowl – he just shouted
Get out
, so I did.' She dragged long on her cigarette, then looked at him. ‘It was horrible – the sound of him attacking her . . .'

‘Obviously a maniac,' said Stephen, quickly getting dressed. ‘Come on, you'd better take me there. We can't have his sort running round the place.' Within a minute he was ready, his shoes unlaced. They came out into the corridor, and with a little tilt of her head Nina indicated the direction. The hotel, an Edwardian relic notable for its scale rather than splendour, had corridors as long as runways. Nobody else was about as she led him onwards. They turned at a right angle, and he saw her counting off the rooms. At the one whose door was ajar, she stopped. Room 408.

‘It's this one.'

‘Sure?'

She nodded, but grabbed his hand as he made to enter, whispering, ‘What are you going to do?'

He gave a considering look. ‘Have a word.'

Stephen gave the door a perfunctory knock and felt himself squaring his shoulders as he walked in. It was a mirror image of their own suite, without the grace notes of flowers and the Scotch. One curtain had been left closed. The bed looked rumpled, though possibly not slept in. He cleared his throat. ‘Hullo?' He heard Nina stepping close behind him. It occurred to him that the man, whoever he was, would take against strangers barging into his room. He opened the door to the sitting room, craned his neck within – also empty.

‘Well, there's nobody here.'

She raked her gaze about the room, frowning at the window. ‘It was this room. He was standing right there. Honestly.'

‘I'm sure he was. But he's scarpered.'

They stood there for a few moments, uncertain, then returned to their room. Stephen lit a cigarette and poured them each another tall Scotch. ‘Down the hatch,' he said, putting the glass in her hand. Nina stared at it absently, then set it down untasted. He waited for her to speak.

‘What d'you think we should do? Tell the desk manager?'

Stephen wrinkled his nose in demur. A doubt had wormed into his mind. ‘Tell him what? I mean, all you saw was a woman bolting out of a room. It might just have been – I don't know – a lovers' tiff.'

She looked aghast at him. ‘
What?
'

He tried to sound a reasonable note. ‘I'm only saying – you may have misinterpreted –'

‘Why on earth would you doubt me? I'm not a hysteric. I know what I heard, and it was no lovers' tiff, as you call it.'

Stephen, alarmed at the sudden adversarial tone, held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. Averse to arguing in general, he was particularly keen not to cross someone whom he had spent an afternoon getting close to.

‘I don't doubt you,' he said. ‘I'm just thinking of our . . . situation. If we make a report, they'll ask for our names. And there'll be no pretending then. D'you see?'