The Wreckage

8

Trafalgar Studios has crimson carpets, dusty chandeliers and an ageing splendor. Dozens of wannabes are milling in the foyer, pretending to ignore each other. Some are rehearsing soliloquies or listening to iPods or chewing gum. Multi-tasking in the modern age.

Holly Knight gives her name to a brisk young assistant wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard. She’s handed a scene to read-a two-page dialogue between “Jenny” and “Alasdair,” a young couple meeting for the first time.

“You’ll be assigned a partner,” says the assistant.

“But I’ve prepared my own material,” says Holly.

“I’m sure your mother loves it.”

The assistant is already taking another name.

Holly has to climb the stairs to find a square of carpet, beneath a window. She reads each line of her dialogue and closes her eyes, trying to memorize them.

After waiting an hour she gets bored. Pushing open a polished wooden door, she finds herself in a small theater with a brilliantly lit stage. Tiered seats rise into the darkness on three sides.

The director, dressed in a Che Guevara beret and fatigues, barely seems to pay attention as names are called and a new pair of actors arrives on stage. Candidates are whittled down. Holly watches them, some trying too hard, others battling nerves. Periodically, the director whispers something to his personal assistant, an unnaturally tall, thin girl with large eyes and a swan neck-a model with dreams of becoming an actress; not beautiful, just different.

It’s almost five o’clock before Holly’s name is called. Her assigned partner is an inch shorter than she is and seems to be channeling Hugh Grant with his flop of hair and nervous mumbling. Holly ignores his affectations and tries to relax, finding places in the dialogue to move and look away and back to her partner.

When she finishes, she waits. The director confers with his assistant. Then he tells Holly to leave her number. It’s not a call back and it’s not a rejection. She almost skips off stage.

Outside she runs along the street and descends the steps into Charing Cross Station. She needs to get to Hatton Garden before the jewelry shops close. Walking down the escalator, she follows the subterranean maze of passages until she reaches the Northern Line and takes a tube to Tottenham Court Road, before changing to the Central Line and surfacing again at Chancery Lane.

Stepping into a doorway on Holborn Road, she takes off her coat and pulls on a cashmere cardigan before brushing her hair. Using a small compact, she paints her lips and checks her make-up, pouting at her reflection. Finally she unwraps the delicate hair-comb from tissue paper, sliding it into her hair and looking at the result in a shop window. Satisfied, she turns into Hatton Garden and chooses a jewelry shop that is clear of customers.

An assistant is returning a tray of engagement rings to a display case.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t done this sort of thing before,” says Holly, putting on a perfect Sloane Square accent. “My mother wanted a few pieces of jewelry valued. She’s looking to sell them. They were gifts from Daddy, who isn’t her favorite person.”

Holly takes out a small velvet box and places it on the glass counter-top. The assistant fetches the owner, who emerges from the back room as though he’s been interned there since the war. Blinking at her shyly, the old jeweler examines each stone and setting with an eyeglass.

Holly leans closer. She’s wearing an expensive watch on her wrist. She wants the jeweler to notice.

“There’s nothing here of particular value,” he says. “Apart from the sentimental sort,” he adds.

“Oh, Mummy will be disappointed. I think she was hoping… well, it doesn’t matter. Thank you anyway.”

As she’s talking, Holly takes out the hair-comb and tosses her hair back before reinserting it again.

“That’s a very interesting piece,” says the jeweler. “May I see it?”

“What? This old thing.”

Even before she places the hair-comb in the old jeweler’s hands, she can see the hunger in his eyes. Desire is something Holly understands, particularly in men.

“It belonged to my grandmother.”

“And perhaps to her grandmother,” he says.

“Is it that old?”

“Indeed it is.”

The jeweler motions to his assistant, who unfurls a dark velvet cloth. The hair-comb is placed carefully at the center of the fabric.

“Would you consider selling it?”

“But it’s an heirloom.”

“A shame.” His fingers tap thoughtfully on the counter. “I could give you seven hundred pounds.”

Holly has to stop herself from looking surprised. “Really? I didn’t think…”

Opening the cash register, the jeweler begins counting out notes in front of her. “Perhaps I could go as high as a thousand.”

“No, really, I couldn’t.”

The stack of notes has grown higher.

“What about these?” Holly motions to the velvet box.

“Fourteen hundred for the lot.”

“If I change my mind?”

“By all means-come back. I am a reasonable man.”

The door opens behind her and a man enters. Holly turns. She recognizes him but it takes a moment for her mind to put him in any sort of context. Then it dawns on her. The robbery… last night… the ex-copper!

Panic prickles on both sides of her skin and she hears a sad little squeak in the back of her throat.

“That’s stolen property! She stole those from me,” says Ruiz, pointing to the jewelry.

Holly blinks at him, shocked, telling herself not to lose control.

“Is there a problem?” asks the jeweler.

“Yes, there’s a problem,” says Ruiz. “This girl is a thief.”

Holly clutches her bag to her chest. “Stay away from me, you pervert!” She turns to the jeweler. “This man has been following me. He’s a stalker. There’s a court order out against him. He’s not supposed to come within a hundred yards of me.”

The old jeweler looks alarmed. “Should I call the police?”

“Good idea,” says Ruiz. “Let’s do that.”

Holly doesn’t flinch. She scoops the hair-comb into her hand and jabs her finger at him. “Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!”

The door opens. A security guard enters. Short and muscular, he’s carrying a baton and every pie he’s ever eaten around his waist. Holly takes one look at him and collapses in a dead faint, scythed down like a stalk of wheat.

Ruiz catches her before she hits her head on a display case. Her eyes are shut. She’s unconscious. Out cold. Her arms flung wide.

“This man has been stalking her,” says the jeweler.

“That’s not true.”

“Step back, sir,” says the guard. “Did you hit her?”

“No, you moron, I caught her as she fell.”

Holly’s eyes open and she blinks at him.

“Did I do it again?” she asks.

“Just lie still,” says Ruiz. “Someone call an ambulance.”

She shakes her head. “I just fainted.”

“You were out cold.”

“It happens sometimes.” She sits up. Pushes hair from her eyes. “Something about my blood sugar level.”

“You’re diabetic.”

“No. I just sort of fall down. It’s no big deal.”

Someone has brought her a glass of water. She needs some fresh air. The security guard walks her out on to the pavement. Holly asks for more water. The guard takes the glass from her and turns his back. In that moment, she’s gone, sprinting down the street, dodging pedestrians and shoppers.

The guard has no chance of catching her.