Switchback Stories (17 page)

Catherine was seated in the back seat of the taxi that cruised by. Her eyes drank in the sights and sounds at the theatre’s entrance: a small brass band played in the corner of the front lobby as the bright beams of the searchlights roamed across the crowd that swelled through the open triple-panel glass doors. This was a spectacular premiere, as lavish as one would expect of a live show that cost several million pounds to produce.

This was the third time in the past two years that Stephanie had won the lead role while Catherine had been cast as her understudy.
Never good enough to be the star,
Catherine thought bitterly,
but always good enough to understudy the main role and appear if the star is ill.
In the two years Catherine had been her understudy, Stephanie had never missed a key performance.

Catherine thought: the bitch will never give
me
the opportunity to show the critics what I can do.

She hadn’t wanted to accept the role but her agent, Robina Halliday, had insisted. ‘I know it’s frustrating, Cath, but it’s work – and believe me, your day will come. We’ll make sure of it.’ They’d been sitting in Robina’s office the day after the roles had been cast. For a woman in her late forties, Robina was more stunning than most females half her age. Her fiery auburn hair was cut short and cropped close to her head, accentuating the long eyelashes and the magnetic, cat-like green eyes.

‘As what – the world’s most experienced understudy. I’m better than Stephanie, I
know
I am. Why can’t the producers see that?’

‘They will, honey,’ Robina assured her, ‘and in the meantime I’ve made sure that Duncan Marstein has seen your auditions, and he’s right on side. Thinks you’re marvellous. Believe me, baby, the tide is going to turn for you. Personal guarantee.’

Smooth, suave and fiftyish, Duncan Marstein was the theatre critic for The Morning Tribune. The day after the debut of a new theatrical show, the newspapers would be full of reviews but there was only one reviewer who had the power to make or break a show – or a performer – and that was the charismatic and dapper Mr. Marstein.

It had only been in the last few days leading up to the premiere of “The Loneliest Star” that Catherine had been struck by the idea. If
she
performed the lead role on opening night then Marstein could give her the rave review that Robina had been priming him to do for some months. Overnight, Catherine thought, I could be a star.

The rest of her plan seemed to follow with the natural flow of clear running water – but it was water from some deep and foul stream.

Although Catherine secretly despised her, Stephanie had never been aware of her understudy’s true feelings. Stephanie was always perfectly charming and friendly to Catherine, always full of joie de vivre.

Catherine knew that, like most performers, Stephanie was always nervous before a premiere, functioning on pure adrenalin.

‘Why don’t I come round to your flat before the show, fix you some afternoon tea, then drive you to the theatre,’ Catherine had suggested the previous day. ‘Let me help you ease those pre-show jitters. After all, we’ve worked in the same productions for quite a while and we’ve hardly got to know one another.’

‘What a lovely thought, but really, Cath, there’s no need.’

‘I won’t take no for an answer.’

Stephanie’s trademark smile, bright and effusive, lit up her face. ‘Well, seeing as how you’ve twisted my arm, how can I refuse?

Catherine had arrived at one o’clock in the afternoon. Stephanie was already pacing back and forth, wringing her hands, constantly checking her watch.

‘You’re going to be marvellous,’ Catherine insisted. She made tea and served savoury pancakes and the two girls sat and chatted as they consumed the food. They were of a similar weight and height, both long-legged and loose limbed, with strong features and expressive faces; but whereas Stephanie had dark eyes and ebony black hair, Catherine had blonde hair, blue eyes and paler skin.

A gentle symphony played on the CD. ‘One last cuppa for the road,’ Catherine suggested at 3.15 and Stephanie nodded her approval.

Catherine slipped the sedatives into Stephanie’s cup. They were the most potent dissolvable tablets available on prescription. She had obtained them from a doctor the day before, after inventing a story that she’d been suffering severe insomnia. Stephanie would sleep soundly until well after the curtain had fallen on tonight’s performance.

Catherine thought:
And a new star will be born
.

She had parked several blocks away and made certain no-one saw her enter the apartment building. She’d be equally as careful while leaving. She would simply deny ever having been in the flat with Stephanie.

And whilst Stephanie would no doubt guess what had happened, she had no way of proving it. It was such a crazy and preposterous idea – for an understudy to do such a thing – that few were likely to take Stephanie’s accusation seriously. That’s if it were ever made public. Whilst theatrical producers loved publicity for their performers, this was the sort of scandal they’d go to any lengths to keep quiet.

Claims and counter claims of this type could tarnish the image of the whole show.

After Stephanie had dozed off on the lounge, Catherine left. She drove straight to the theatre, imagining the comments that might appear in Duncan Marstein’s review: ‘… like an angel she has transformed what could have been a night of disappointment into a personal triumph … two and a half magical hours in which a new star burned brightly in the theatrical firmament …’

An hour before the curtain was due to rise, panic spread backstage like a loose electrical wire snaking madly across the floor. ‘What do you mean Stephanie’s not here yet,’ thundered Jackson Le Roy. He was a short, stocky, bearded man and when he exploded, his anger was like the wrath of some mythical Greek God. ‘She’s never been late.
Never.
Have you phoned her apartment?’

‘I’ve sent someone
round
to her apartment,’ replied stage manager, Joel McLennan. ‘There’s no-one home. We’ve no idea where she is.’

Le Roy prowled the backstage area like a wounded tiger. ‘Opening night and we’ll have to go with the understudy,’ he groaned. ‘Don’t tell me she’s not here.’

‘Catherine O’Leary’s in make-up,’ McLennan assured him.

Catherine had said nothing of her plan to her agent. It was important no-one knew; that no-one had any reason to believe it possible when Stephanie woke and made her accusations.

Robina was talking to a few of the other girls she represented when she heard the news. She raced into Catherine’s dressing cubicle. ‘This is
it
, baby. What an extraordinary opportunity.’ She threw her arms around Catherine. ‘You knock ‘em dead out there, okay?’

‘I’ll give it everything I’ve got. What about Duncan Marstein – we can count on him, can’t we?’

Robina responded with her cheekiest grin. ‘No need to worry, I’ve made sure of that, darling. He thinks you’re a great talent. Now he’ll have the chance to write the review he’s been promising. In fact, I must find him – tell him the news.’

‘There’ll be an announcement before the curtain goes up,’ Catherine reminded her.

‘I know. But I need to talk to him.’ She rushed off.

Marstein was in the theatre’s bar, bourbon in hand, chatting with colleagues. As she elbowed her way through the crowd toward him, Robina noticed his speech was louder and his movements more animated than usual. He was swaying gently on the spot.

She tugged at his elbow, speaking softly. ‘Duncan. Change of plan. We need to talk.’ She led him to the nearest corner. ‘Stephanie Sanders hasn’t turned up. Catherine is going on.’

It took him a moment to absorb the news. ‘Wonderful,’ he said with a slight slur to his speech. ‘I wouldn’t have had so much to drink if I’d known I was still going to have to write my review
after
the show as usual.’

‘I did think you were a little tipsy,’ Robina commented.

‘Tipsy? Good Lord, woman, I’m way beyond being a little tipsy.’ He roared with unnecessary laughter. Robina winced. Duncan was a known boozer –
after
he’d attended a show and written his piece – that was when he headed for the after-show parties. Robina much preferred him when he was sober. She didn’t regret the intimate relationship she’d developed with him, though – it was going to prove invaluable when it came to influencing his reviews of the performers she represented.

Most of the people in the theatrical community were afraid of Duncan Marstein’s power. Robina had decided, from the outset, to get on the man’s good side and to become part of the clique who were his closest friends and confidantes.

She had discovered two surprising facts about Duncan: first, that his confident and urbane image was merely a mask for a lonely and insecure man; second, that he’d once made a drunken pass at Stephanie Sanders, which she’d laughed off, and he’d held a secret resentment of her ever since.

‘I’m the one with the true power in this town,’ he’d said drunkenly to Robina when he’d told her of the snub, ‘is a little respect too much to ask for?’

‘It’s the least you deserve,’ she’d replied.

His last few reviews of Stephanie had been subtle in their criticism of her performance. That fact led Robina to discreetly plant an idea in his mind; a way in which to stunt Stephanie’s runaway career path in the longer-term hope it would sway producers toward Catherine for upcoming productions.

A scathing review of Stephanie’s performance in “The Loneliest Star”.

A Marstein review had a snowball effect, with other, lesser critics jumping on the bandwagon.

‘It’s not like you to drink
before
a show,’ Robina said.

‘I knew what I intended to write about Stephanie, regardless of the show, so I’d already written it. Saw no need to stay sober. Not to worry, those parts can be re-written. The newspaper still doesn’t expect to receive my copy until an hour after the show closes, as usual.’

Robina patted his arm affectionately. ‘We’re thrilled to have your support, Duncan. It means so much to young Catherine. She thinks the world of you. Now, later on after the show, we must get together. Your place?’

‘Yes, of course. Come around. A private celebration.’

‘Just the two of us,’ Robina promised, her eyes emitting signals as potent as any words.

The announcement was made just prior to the rise of the stage curtain, and at 7.44, after the rousing overture, Catherine stepped on stage to sing the first song.

• • •

When Stephanie woke, her mouth was incredibly dry. She pushed herself shakily to her feet, shuffled into the kitchen and poured herself a king-size glass of Coke. Her head felt as though it was stuffed tight with cotton wool and a dull ache sat like an immovable stone at the base of her skull.

It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the kitchen wall clock. 10.45 pm. So late, she thought, I must have dozed off. Wasn’t I meant to be somewhere … and then it dawned on her.
The Show
… Her memory of the afternoon came tumbling back, a series of jumbled scenes. That last cup of tea … the sudden drowsiness …

Where was Catherine?

Performing my role
.

The realization hit her like a physical blow and she felt herself go weak at the knees. Instinctively she knew that Catherine had drugged her and was out there now, singing and dancing the lead role on the premiere night. How could she do such a thing?

When the producers and the public find out …

She stopped. Did she have any way of proving her version of events? An imaginary newspaper headline appeared in her mind’s eye:

LEADING LADY CLAIMS SHE WAS DRUGGED BY UNDERSTUDY.

The theatre world would spin into uproar. No doubt Catherine and her supporters would deny the allegation.

Proof? Was there any proof?

Despite her fragile head, Stephanie padded into the living room and conducted a search. There was no sign of what might have been used to sedate her. As far as she knew, no-one had seen Catherine in her apartment that afternoon.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through the silence. Stephanie picked up the receiver.

‘Steph! Where in God’s name have you been?’ It was Joel Mc Lennan. ‘I’ve been trying to raise you all evening.’

Stephanie’s breath caught in her throat. Did she voice her suspicions? Or was it better to invent a plausible story that would leave her reputation intact? No-one would blame her if she said she’d come down suddenly with a 24 hour virus and fallen asleep.

‘Steph …?’

‘Still here,’ she croaked. ‘Joel. I’m feeling … dreadfully bad. I’ll have to call you back.’ She hung up the phone quickly.

• • •

Catherine had walked offstage only minutes earlier to the handshakes, hugs and kisses of the cast and crew. There’d been some patchy moments, but overall she was certain she’d pulled off the performance brilliantly.

‘Catherine, we’re all going to the Excelsior for drinks,’ said the male lead, Michael Cray. ‘You must come along.’

She beamed at all the attention. This is just the beginning, she thought. When the producers saw the review the offers would start. She saw Robina in the crowd and waved. Robina pushed her way across and hugged her. ‘Duncan’s gone home to write what he tells me will be an absolute rave,’ Robina whispered in her ear. ‘In about half an hour he emails it to the paper.’

‘Come and join us for a drink,’ said Catherine.

‘Just one, baby. Then Duncan and I are getting together for a very private party.’

It was 12.40 when Robina arrived at Duncan Marstein’s elegant, two storey home. There was no answer to her knock and, surprised to find the front door unlocked, she went through to the ground floor study at the rear.

Duncan was at his desk, slumped forward with his head resting right in front of his computer keyboard. He was snoring. Totally sloshed, Robina realized.

She felt a flutter of panic. The review …? She decided to check the PC before she roused Duncan.

Robina tapped the relevant keys to bring up his emails. She checked his Sent folder. There had been only one: thirty minutes earlier, subject line: The Loneliest Star Review.’