Two for Sorrow

Chapter Five

Marjorie took a roll of narrow purple ribbon and carefully cut it to the right length, enjoying the peace and solitude of the workroom in the early evening. Everyone else had gone home an hour ago—most of the other women had families to look after—but she had gladly offered to stay behind and work a little longer: there was a long list of minor alterations and finishing-off touches to attend to after the various fittings that had taken place that afternoon, and she was in no rush to get back to Campbell Road to face another confrontation with her father. In any case, she had her own reasons for wanting time alone.

She shifted her chair round slightly to get more light, then selected a strong wire hairpin from one of the boxes in the centre of the table and bent it into the shape of a horseshoe, with the prongs about an inch apart. These decorative additions to the main evening gowns were often more time-consuming than the dresses themselves, but they were not difficult and, as she set about creating the fabric violets which would complete Mary Size’s outfit, she found that the calm, methodical nature of the work helped to eclipse the tensions of the day. Why had the argument with her father upset her so much? she wondered, placing the ribbon over one side of the hairpin, then drawing the long end over and under the other prong, giving it a half turn to make sure that the satin stayed on the outside. It wasn’t as if it was unusual—not a day went by without a row over something, and there had never been any love lost between them. Holding the ribbon taut, she repeated the process until she had made enough loops, then twisted a fine piece of wire around the centre of the material to form a stem. When she had made sure that everything was in place, she removed the hairpin and crushed the centres together to make the petals of the flower spread out, then wound the rest of the ribbon around the wire, finishing at the bottom with a tight knot. Was it because she had more to lose now, and he had dared to encroach on the new world she had created for herself? Or had she recognised a streak of opportunism which had surfaced recently in her own character?

Patiently, Marjorie cut a few more lengths of ribbon and carried on working until she had made enough single flowers to form a small corsage. She tied them together, her fingers deftly arranging the fabric to look as natural as possible and, as she looked down at her hands, she was surprised to see that they were barely recognisable as her own—comparatively well cared-for now, and with no sign of the dirt and bitten nails that she had grown used to. They were her best asset, and she needed to look after them—it was the first thing Mrs Reader had said to her when she arrived at Motley back in May, and Marjorie had surprised herself by heeding that and all the other advice which the head cutter had passed on. She was quick to learn, and as soon as Hilda Reader spotted her enthusiasm and potential she had made sure that the girl was given every possible chance to develop them, working her hard as she taught her the stitches and techniques involved in high-class couture—the hand-rolled hems and fine pin-tucks, the fringing and beading, the delicacy of embroidery by hand and machine; helping her to understand the different weights and qualities of the fabrics, and how they would be transformed by stage lighting. Under Mrs Reader’s patient but demanding eye, she had gradually learned to work at the speed which a busy house like Motley required—and, for the first time in her twenty-three years, Marjorie knew what it was to be genuinely grateful. It made no difference to her now whether she was working on costumes for the theatre or more conventional clothes for the sisters’ boutique range—it was the magical transformation of the materials which delighted her, the privilege of being surrounded by things which were beautiful.

So why had she risked all that with one rash decision, tricked by her father into a complicity that shamed and horrified her? Perhaps he was right—genes would always out, no matter how hard she fought against them, and a child’s life was mapped out even before he or she was born. She looked around the workroom, so full of colour and individuality—walls covered with sketches of historical costumes and glamorous theatrical production shots, shelves groaning under the weight of art books and gallery catalogues from which the Motleys so often took their inspiration, small personal items left next to the sewing machines by several of the girls, implying a sense of ownership and continuity—and compared it to what she was used to: long rows of treadle sewing machines, overlooked by two prison officers, where the only embroidery to be done was the stencilling of a number on a mailbag; no banter and no company, other than a few old drunks languidly teasing out coir to fill mattresses, the joints of their hands swollen with rheumatism; and certainly no creativity or beauty—just automatic, monotonous work, the relentless blue of prison uniforms.

Sighing heavily, she put the finished violets down and walked over to the row of tall windows which overlooked St Martin’s Lane. The first flakes of snow had begun to fall, fulfilling the promise of the day’s cold, and Marjorie watched the people on the pavement below hurrying into theatres or public houses, shaking the weather from their Friday-night clothes and laughing as the ultimate symbol of Christmas began its gentle veiling of the city. Why did everything seem so much more desperate as Christmas got closer? The sense of disappointment and longing was even stronger than usual, the briefest moments of happiness all the more intense. December was always marked in her house by the biggest rows of the year, and the pressure to please only increased the greatest worry—money. It had peaked when she was about twelve, when they still lived outside the city; her mother belonged to a loan club, and she always drew on it a couple of weeks ahead of Christmas. Marjorie remembered how she used to love putting the money out on the kitchen table; it couldn’t have been more than a few quid, but she would set some by for the kids’ presents and use the rest to pay back debts from the year; the small piles of coins built up on scraps of paper—IOUs or shopping lists. Marjorie was washing up at the sink, listening to her mother hum one of the familiar carols while she did her sums; her father was by the fire, reading his paper. Then one of her little brothers called out from the next room and her mother went to see what he wanted; her father must have gone out after her, because when Marjorie turned round a few minutes later, they were both standing in the doorway, looking accusingly at her across the table, where one of the piles had disappeared. There was a hell of a row and Marjorie stormed out; she knew that her father must have pocketed the money—later, her mother had admitted that she knew as much, too, but it had been easier to blame her daughter. That was a talent her mother had, finding anyone to blame but the person at fault; it was a trait that ran throughout Marjorie’s fractured family, with her parents at the centre of it—by turns resentful, uneasy, lost, as if they could no longer remember who had trapped who.

Frustrated, she turned away from her reflection in the glass and went through to the small clients’ fitting room to fetch the next job on Mrs Reader’s list and tidy up after the last of the appointments. In spite of her mood, she had to smile when she saw the bottle of vodka and two glasses that Geraldine Ashby had smuggled in with her earlier that evening. Marjorie was under no illusions as to Gerry’s interest in her, and she saw no reason to be coy about it; what intrigued her, though, was that the feeling was mutual. She was surprised by how much she liked Geraldine—not because of her wealth or her title, but because she was unpredictable; she resisted what was expected of her, and to a girl whose petty acts of rebellion had got her in and out of trouble since she was fifteen, that sort of spirit was dangerously attractive. Marjorie picked up the bottle to throw it away before it was discovered, then thought better of it and poured herself another drink from what was left. There was a cutting from a magazine on the wall in front of her, a piece from last month’s Tatler with the headline ‘Nurses to benefit from theatrical coup’; the photograph showed the Motley seamstresses and some of the members of the Cowdray Club standing in the workroom, preparing the clothes for next week’s gala, and there was a smaller picture underneath of Noël Coward on stage with Gertrude Lawrence. Ronnie and Lettice had bought copies for all the girls to take home, and Marjorie thought again of what her father had said—her new friends were not all they seemed. She knew what he meant, and yet there was something about this world of glamour and make-believe that seemed more real to her than anything else she had ever known. The taste of it had made her reckless, and encouraged her to make promises to Lucy which she had no idea if she could keep. Lucy didn’t seem bothered, though. Half the time, Marjorie got the impression that the girl was only humouring her anyway, and—emotionally—Lucy often seemed more grown up than she was; perhaps that’s what having a child did for you. Still, she thought, holding up the dress that was to be altered and looking at herself in the mirror, this plan was more solid than most, and it was stupid to have doubts when it was too late to do anything about them.

As she carried the gown carefully back into the workroom, a tailor’s dummy in the corner caught her eye, next to a roll of deep-blue silk. She knew it was waiting to be transformed into a cape to match one of the evening gowns for the gala, and that it would be the first job on Hilda Reader’s list in the morning. She never tired of watching as the cutter worked from the designs that the Motley sisters produced, interpreting their sketches into a three-dimensional garment by pinning, draping and cutting the material, apparently without effort. It was a great skill, and Marjorie had been so thrilled when Mrs Reader said she was almost ready to try it herself. She liked Lettice and Ronnie, and was in awe of their talent; obviously she wanted them to think well of her, but it was Hilda Reader—the woman who had first had confidence in her, the mother she wished she’d had—who she really wanted to impress, and what better way than by making the cape herself, now, when everywhere was quiet? It was a risk, but it would be worth it to see the look on the head cutter’s face in the morning, and it would keep Marjorie’s mind off other things.

She took another sip of vodka for courage and measured out a length of material, then arranged the silk on the back of the dummy, leaving enough at the top to complete the collar work later. Carefully, she brought the selvedges round to the front and pinned them to the back cloth at the top of the shoulders, making sure that the material was not too tightly drawn across the chest. She checked the desired length against the sketch one more time, took a deep breath, and picked up the scissors—this was the moment of no return, but there was no point being half-hearted about it. She cut boldly across the bottom, allowing for a two-inch hem, and was relieved to see that the line was straight and the silk fell as she knew it should. Buoyed up by her success, Marjorie carried on patiently, so absorbed in her work that she forgot everything else. As she stepped back to examine the general shape of the material before making the final cuts, she heard the sound of footsteps on the iron stairs outside. Still exhilarated by the miraculous way in which the garment now resembled its paper counterpart, she went out into the corridor, confident that she could handle anything.

When she saw who it was, she opened her mouth to speak but, before she could utter a word, she found herself shoved hard against the back wall of the lobby. The action took her completely by surprise, and there was no chance to recover before something was sprayed in her face. She turned away, blinded for a moment, but the spray came again and whatever she had inhaled disoriented her. She stumbled back into the workroom and tried to shut the door behind her, but she was too slow. By the time she felt the tape measure tighten around her neck, she was too weak to offer any resistance.

News of Josephine’s arrival in town had spread fast. She arrived back at the Cowdray Club to find a note from Ronnie and Lettice with instructions—by no stretch of the imagination could it be called an invitation—to meet them for supper at Rules after the evening performance of Romeo and Juliet. There was ‘much to catch up on’, apparently, and the envelope also included a ticket for the theatre in case she wanted to see the show. The period of coming and going as she pleased was at an end, obviously, but she found she didn’t much mind.

Considerately, the girls had reserved a house seat at the back of the stalls for her so that she could slip into the performance at any point, and she was able to get some more work done before getting ready to go out. She decided to take a cab to the New and expected to have to go to Oxford Street to find one, but, as she left the Club, she noticed a taxi a few doors down, dropping someone off outside the church in Henrietta Place. The driver acknowledged her wave, and she waited on the pavement while he finished with his current fare, still thinking about what she had seen in Finchley and Islington.

‘Josephine?’

The voice was hesitant and came from across the street. She looked over to where a woman was standing by the iron railings, and found it difficult to believe what she was seeing. As she stared, too surprised even to say hello, the woman left the shadows and walked up to her, apparently unsure of her welcome. ‘I’m sorry to turn up like this,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to see you and every scheme I came up with to bump into you seemed so ridiculous that I thought I’d just come clean and say hello.’

‘You don’t have to come up with ways to bump into me, Marta—you could just telephone.’ Josephine held out her arms, genuinely delighted to see her friend’s lover after so long. ‘Lydia didn’t even tell me you were back.’

‘She doesn’t know.’ Marta pulled away from the hug, and Josephine was struck by how much she had changed in the last eighteen months. She was still remarkably beautiful, but the warmth in her eyes which had prevented it from being merely a physical attribute was now hard to find, and the spark of defiance which Josephine had found so attractive had all but disappeared. It was hardly surprising, she thought: she had come so close to death, and the enforced separation from Lydia alone must have taken its toll. God knows what damage Marta’s other demons had done to her in the meantime. ‘I know I should have called Lydia,’ she continued, ‘but I just couldn’t face it at the moment.’ She paused, apparently trying to find a way to explain. ‘You see, I didn’t want her to think …’

‘I know, I know.’ Josephine interrupted, wanting to make it easier for her. ‘After everything that’s happened, things are bound to be strange between you, but she won’t think badly of you, really she won’t.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘Lydia loves you, Marta, and that hasn’t changed—trust me. Do you want me to pave the way for you? Is that why you’re here?’ She looked back down the road to where the taxi was turning round, ready to pick her up. ‘I was just off to meet Lettice and Ronnie, but that can wait if you want me to talk to her now. Getting you two back together is much more important than …’

‘Josephine—please, just listen to me for a minute,’ Marta said impatiently. ‘That wasn’t what I was going to say. I didn’t want Lydia to think we could pick up where we left off. Things have changed—I’ve changed—and I wanted to see you because I wanted to see you. It’s got nothing to do with Lydia.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you?’ Marta turned away for a moment, her frustration getting the better of her. When she looked back, Josephine was shocked to see tears in her eyes, although she spoke more calmly. ‘The last time we met, we didn’t have the chance to get to know each other very well.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I suppose you could say that things got in the way, but I don’t want to talk about the past. This is a fresh start for me. I don’t know if that includes Lydia. I rather hoped it might include you.’

The taxi pulled into the kerb and stopped at a discreet distance from the two women. ‘Are you really saying what I think you’re saying?’ Josephine asked, horrified.

‘God, I knew I’d make a mess of this, no matter how many times I rehearsed it.’

‘Don’t worry, Marta—it must be hard to be word perfect when you’re asking me to betray someone we both care about. Well, someone I care about, at least.’

‘Of course I care about her, but it’s not that simple—you don’t understand.’

A feeling which she could only describe as panic made Josephine react more harshly than she wanted to. ‘Don’t you dare patronise me like that,’ she said. ‘I’ve spent nearly two years watching Lydia try to pick up the pieces after you pulled her life out from under her, so I think I understand all I need to.’

‘Aren’t you romanticising things a little? I’m sure if Lydia’s career were going better, she’d find my absence much easier to bear.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m hardly in a position to criticise Lydia, and that was a despicable thing to say.’

‘Although not entirely unfair.’ Josephine smiled, and some of the tension between them relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, too, Marta—but I wasn’t expecting this.’

‘I understand that. Neither was I.’

‘You hardly know me. When we met, it was the most terrible time of your life and I happened to be there. I can see why that was important to you, but it’s not real—surely you must see that?’

‘Now who’s being patronising? Look, I’ve said more than I meant to already,’ Marta admitted. ‘I really just came here to give you this.’ She reached into her bag and took out an envelope. ‘I’ve been keeping a diary for a few months now. I thought it might help me to come to terms with what happened, and then I realised how often you were mentioned in it. I’d like you to read it.’ Josephine opened the envelope and looked inside. In the light of the streetlamp, she could see a sheaf of thin, blue paper, covered in Marta’s distinctive handwriting. ‘It might do a better job of explaining than I’ve managed in person. I know it’s been a shock, my turning up like this,’ she added, ‘but can you honestly say that it’s just me? Did I only imagine that there might have been something between us if things had been different?’ Josephine thought for a moment, trying to be honest with herself before she said anything to Marta, and her hesitation seemed to give Marta the encouragement she was looking for. ‘Please, Josephine, give me a week—a week of your time to read this and think about it, that’s all I ask. I’ll be at Prunier’s next Friday—if the answer’s no, I won’t press you and I won’t bother you again.’

‘And if the answer is no, where does that leave Lydia?’

‘If?’ She raised an eyebrow challengingly, and Josephine blushed at the admission that there was anything to consider. ‘But in answer to your question—I can’t think about Lydia until I know how you really feel.’ She held up her hand as Josephine started to protest. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but I’m forty-four, and that’s far too old to waste time doing the right thing, even if it means kicking kindness and sympathy out of the window. If anything good can be said to have come out of the last few months, it’s that I’ve had the chance to be honest with myself and think about what I want. I’ve wasted far too much of my life over the years, and I’m afraid it’s made me selfish.’ She leaned forward and kissed Josephine gently. ‘If you’re not there, I’ll know you’ve made your decision.’

Marta walked over to the taxi and held the door open for her, but Josephine paused before getting in. ‘How did you even know I was here?’ she asked.

‘I saw you shopping and followed you home.’

‘So the gardenia was from you,’ Josephine said, the scent of Marta’s perfume still heavy in the air between them.

‘Yes. I thought it would be fairer than just appearing out of nowhere.’

‘It would have been fairer still if you’d put your name to it.’

‘I didn’t think I’d have to, Josephine,’ Marta said quietly. ‘So perhaps I have my answer already.’

When the cab pulled up in front of the New Theatre, an embarrassed Josephine tipped the driver generously and settled into her seat just in time for the Capulets’ ball. Lettice and Ronnie had designed both the stage sets and the costumes, giving the show a visual unity for which their productions were always famed, and, had she been in the mood for any sort of make-believe, she would have been instantly transported to Renaissance Italy. A narrow strip of sky ran along the back wall, suggesting sunlight and warmth, and streamers hung down from the fly tower, giving a festive air to the proceedings. The balcony stood in the centre of it all. As the play progressed, the closing of some curtains or a clever change of lighting transformed the stage swiftly and effectively into a garden or a friar’s cell, Juliet’s bedroom, and later her tomb, while the costumes—fresh and brightly coloured at first—faded subtly but inevitably to black, mirroring the shifting mood of the story.

Feeling as though she had already dealt Lydia one blow that evening, Josephine was determined to dislike her rival leading lady’s portrayal of Juliet—but she found it impossible to do so. Peggy seemed to have walked straight out of a Botticelli painting, and the lightness and spontaneity of her performance made it a joy to watch. Larry was coming to the end of his time as Romeo, and, although Shakespeare’s poetry would no doubt be better served when John Terry took over the role at the end of the month, Josephine doubted that Johnny—who was really only in love with himself—would be capable of the sort of youthful, restless passion that had the audience captivated this evening. Somehow, Larry managed to be impetuous and hesitant at the same time, and it took no great feat of imagination to believe that he was in the grip of a love so intense that he gave little thought to the consequences. It was really the last thing Josephine needed to see, preoccupied as she was with Marta, and, when the actor tenderly touched the balcony as though the stones were an extension of Juliet herself, she found herself barely able to watch.

While the actors were taking their third curtain call, Josephine left her seat and walked round to the stage door. Larry was already on his way up from the green room, and she congratulated him warmly. ‘Thanks, Josephine,’ he said, giving her that raffish smile which had made him such an attractive Bothwell when he stepped into her Queen of Scots at a week’s notice. ‘The girls said you might be in tonight—I’m glad you liked it.’ He glanced past her to where a dark-haired woman was waiting at the top of the stairs, and his natural charm became something rather more. ‘Excuse me—I have to go now, but it’s lovely to see you again.’ He ran up the steps, two at a time, and Josephine carried on downstairs to look for Lettice and Ronnie.

The green room was full of the usual post-show detritus—abandoned glasses of wine, half-eaten meals, cast-off modesty—and it didn’t take her long to locate the Motleys amid the shrieking and hilarity coming from one of the dressing rooms. ‘Vivienne was absolutely right,’ Ronnie was saying as Josephine put her head round the door. ‘Her make-up walks on stage and Hephzibar follows three minutes later!’ As the rest of the room dissolved into rowdy laughter, Ronnie noticed her and jumped up from Benvolio’s lap to greet her. ‘Josephine! About bloody time! In town for forty-eight hours at least and not a peep out of you. How on earth have you coped without us?’

‘I haven’t. Why do you think I’m here now?’ She hugged Ronnie and Lettice, then went over to kiss Lettice’s fiancé, George, who had taken the role of Peter in the play. ‘It’s a fabulous production—you must all be thrilled with it.’

‘We are,’ Lettice agreed, ‘but we’re even more pleased with the houses. For the first time ever, we’re on a percentage of the profits. Every ticket sold is a farthing to us.’

‘So make sure they pay for dinner, Josephine,’ said George, smiling.

‘Aren’t you joining us then?’

‘No, but I am,’ said a voice behind her, and she felt hands on her shoulders and a kiss on the back of her head.

‘Lydia! I wasn’t expecting … How lovely to see you.’ Josephine struggled through to the end of the sentence, hoping that she sounded more convincing than she felt. After what had happened earlier, maintaining an air of normality with the Motleys would have been difficult; with Lydia there too, it was nigh on impossible, and her mask seemed to be slipping already.

‘Are you all right?’ Lettice asked, looking solicitously at her. ‘You don’t seem quite yourself.’

‘Oh, I’m fine. I’ve just spent the day in the company of some rather odd people, and it takes me a while to come up for air.’

‘That’ll teach you to stay at a women’s club,’ Ronnie said, stubbing her cigarette out and reaching for her coat.

Josephine laughed. ‘I wasn’t talking about them. I meant the people I’m writing about.’

‘Even so, you should be careful. It’s only a matter of time before all that female company rubs off on you.’

‘I should be so lucky,’ Lydia said, feigning an expression of self-pity. ‘It’s been so long, I think I’ve forgotten what to do.’

‘Shouldn’t we be going?’ Josephine asked casually.

‘Yes, we should.’ Lettice looked at her watch and kissed George goodbye. ‘I don’t want them giving our table to someone else—I’m starving. We can catch up on the way.’

They walked out into St Martin’s Lane, where the snow was just beginning to settle on window ledges and car rooftops. ‘Good God, Marjorie’s still at it,’ Ronnie said, glancing up at the studio windows. ‘Do you think we should pop in and tell her to go home?’ She poked Josephine in the shoulder. ‘And we could show you your outfit for next week—you’re about the only member of the bloody Cowdray Club who hasn’t stepped over our threshold today.’ Just as she finished speaking, the lights went out in the workroom.

‘Looks like she’s finally had enough,’ Lettice said. ‘I don’t blame her—she’s worked hard today. We’ll have to show Josephine tomorrow—Marjorie will only feel obliged to stay longer if we go up now, and we don’t want her to think we’re checking up on her.’

They carried on to the restaurant, and Lydia fell into step with Josephine, leaving the sisters to talk about work. ‘Of course, neither of them can wear tights,’ she said cryptically. ‘Larry’s really too thin, and Johnny’s completely knock-kneed.’ It was a game attempt to be light-hearted, but Josephine knew how difficult it must be for Lydia to watch a younger woman in the role she so craved, and to know in her heart that she was unlikely ever to play Juliet again. ‘Johnny promised me we’d do it together one more time,’ she continued, ‘and then the bastard goes behind my back and gives it to Peggy without even having the decency to explain why. Tell me honestly—you’d never know there was seventeen years between me and her, would you?’

‘No, of course not,’ Josephine said, painfully aware that the triumph of Peggy’s performance lay in the way she had preserved Juliet’s youth with her passion. She remembered how often she had seen Lydia on stage, long before they ever met, and how much she had admired her; to Josephine’s mind, she was a much finer actress than any of her contemporaries, but that was no consolation when the theatre belonged to a new generation. ‘You know how it is, though,’ she continued vaguely. ‘Politics always get in the way. I’m sure if Johnny had a free hand you’d be his first choice, but he has so many people to please. And it’s not as though you haven’t been busy.’

‘Picking up Flora’s crumbs in a second-rate play at the Savoy is hardly the same thing. I really won’t be sorry to see the back of this year—I feel like I’ve been frustrated at every turn. I hope to God that 1936 will be better.’

‘At least you have the cottage,’ Josephine said, knowing that the house in the country which Lydia had bought after the success of Richard of Bordeaux was her greatest solace in Marta’s absence.

‘Tagley? Yes, it’s heavenly—you must come and see it.’ She took Josephine’s arm. ‘I’m sorry to be such a miserable cow, but I still haven’t heard from her. I had this stupid idea that we might be able to spend Christmas together at the cottage—use it as a place to start again. If I’m honest, I suppose that’s partly why I bought it, but she hasn’t answered any of my letters.’

‘Has there been anyone else?’ Josephine asked. ‘For you, I mean,’ she added hurriedly.

‘Nothing serious. I haven’t got the heart for anything that matters, and I never thought I’d hear myself say that.’ She sighed. ‘God, Josephine—eighteen months ago I had everything I wanted. You can lose it all so quickly, can’t you?’

Josephine nodded. ‘If Marta did get in touch, would you do things differently this time?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, after she left, you told me that if you’d paid more attention to her and how she was feeling, things might have been different. So would you put Marta first now? Ahead of the next part?’

‘Of course I would.’ She caught Josephine’s eye. ‘Well, I’d try to. I’d convince myself I could. Let’s face it, I’m going to have more time on my hands as I get older, not less.’

‘That sounds like a choice by default.’

‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ Lydia was quiet for a moment. ‘It worked, though, didn’t it?’ she asked eventually. ‘You thought we were happy together?’

Josephine recalled the time she’d spent with Marta and Lydia; brief though it was, she had envied their closeness with an intensity which had surprised her and, in the months since, had found herself acknowledging her own restlessness—she refused to call it loneliness—with alarming regularity. Perhaps that was why Marta had made her so angry: by threatening to betray Lydia, she had also betrayed Josephine’s fragile hope that a partnership based on love and respect and compromise might yet be possible for her. ‘Yes, I did,’ she admitted truthfully. ‘As happy as two people can be.’

‘Ever the optimist,’ Lydia said, smiling at her, and there was a trace of their old friendship in her gentle mockery. Josephine realised suddenly how much she had missed it; they talked so rarely these days. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Lydia sighed. ‘Perhaps she’d be better with someone else, and I should stick to wining and dining chorus girls at the Ivy.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘I know, and don’t worry—I’m not quite ready to give in yet.’

They reached the restaurant and Josephine opened the door gratefully, anxious to be seated at a table where the conversation would be diluted. She didn’t know who to blame more—Marta for putting her in this position, or herself for allowing it to happen—but at least while she was angry, she didn’t have to think more deeply about how she actually felt.

As well as having the distinction of being just across the street from the Motleys’ new apartments, Rules was the oldest restaurant in London and a second home to most of the theatrical profession. In fact, it had long been crowded with celebrities from all walks of life, and past customers from Dickens to Edward VII lived on in the cartoons and photographs which lined the walls. The family had built its reputation on traditional London food, and the restaurant still specialised in game, much of which was brought in from its own estate; it was the sort of menu which would normally have delighted Josephine, but tonight she merely glanced at it perfunctorily and chose the first thing on the list.

‘So tell us more about these odd people you’ve been hanging around with.’ Lettice’s tone was bright enough but she looked curiously across the table, sensing that something was wrong. ‘Archie says it’s got something to do with a real crime.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ They listened as she outlined the bare bones of the Sach and Walters case, then explained her own connection with what happened at Anstey years afterwards.

‘I don’t quite see her problem myself,’ Ronnie said, washing her sarcasm down with a swig of champagne. ‘It sounds to me like her mother had hit on a bloody good idea. I once had to look after a friend’s baby for half an hour—and I would have considered thirty pounds to be a very reasonable price.’

‘But how on earth did they ever think they’d get away with it?’ Lettice asked, fascinated. ‘Surely they should have been more careful?’

‘Yes, I can’t help feeling that it would have been wise to prepare a more eloquent defence than “I never murdered no babies”.’ Ronnie lapsed into a convincing cockney accent, and Lydia smiled approvingly at her. ‘Seriously, though,’ she added, leaning back to allow the waiter to place a large plate of oysters in front of her, ‘isn’t this gala something to do with a children’s charity as well as the Cowdray Club?’

‘Yes—the Actors’ Orphanage. It’s Noël’s pet cause, and his aunt’s on the club’s committee.’

‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘In what way?’ Lettice asked, irritated by her sister’s habit of never quite explaining her point.

‘Well, here we are in 1935, still having to raise money for unwanted children, just so they can grow up in institutions which can’t be very pleasant, even if they are supported by the lord of the London stage. It might be legal, but it doesn’t exactly sound like progress.’

‘It’s funny—the first time I ever saw Gertie on stage, she was so pregnant she could hardly squeeze into the costumes,’ Lydia said, reaching for some bread. ‘It was just after the war, and I gather she did a matinee and an evening performance on the day before the birth. Of course, that all went tits up. If she hadn’t had her mother to dump the kid on, I suppose she would have ended up in the orphanage as well.’

‘You are sure it’s the charities that this money is going to?’ Ronnie asked, looking at Josephine with a wicked glint in her eye. ‘I’d check the takings very carefully if I were you. Charity begins chez Lawrence with her current predicament.’

‘Don’t be so scandalous,’ chided Lettice. ‘That’s all behind her now. She’s paying off the debts at fifty pounds a week—they’ve just cleared her of the bankruptcy.’

‘Bankruptcy?’

‘Good God, dear—where have you been? Don’t they have newspapers in Inverness? Miss Lawrence’s financial embarrassment has been the toast of the press for months. Apparently, she was so busy ordering new cars and flowers that she forgot to pay her laundry bills. It’s easily done, I suppose.’

‘Oh, it’s been simply awful for her,’ Lettice said sympathetically, balancing roast potatoes around the edge of her steak-and-kidney pie. ‘Gertie, her maid, even her dog—they were all turned out on to the street. In the end, her agent took them in.’

‘Good to know they’re useful for something,’ Lydia said bitterly. ‘Although I have to say, I haven’t noticed any marked drop in standards now Gertie’s slumming it.’

‘No, she’s determined not to cut back on anything.’ Lettice’s familiarity with the gossip columns was legendary, and Josephine wasn’t at all surprised by her intimate knowledge of Gertrude Lawrence’s financial affairs. ‘No—she says she’ll make up every penny through cabaret and extra bits of filming.’

‘And charity galas.’

As the Motleys continued their bickering, Josephine noticed how often Lydia’s face reverted to sadness, and she could bear it no longer. If she stayed here, she was likely to take Lydia discreetly outside and tell her everything that Marta had said, which would surely only make things worse. ‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ she said when there was a break in the sparring. ‘I’ve got another appointment with the baby farmers in the morning, and I should be getting back.’

‘Not so early, surely? You’ll stay for dessert?’

‘No, but I promise to stop by the studio tomorrow and look at my outfit. Archie assured me it’s worth trying on. I’ll see you then—about three o’clock?’

The girls nodded and let her go without any further argument. Outside in the street, she breathed a sigh of relief and looked up to Archie’s flat, but it was in darkness. Disappointed not to find him in, she turned and walked down Maiden Lane, hoping to be lucky with a cab in Bedford Street, but she hadn’t got far before she heard someone call her name. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you just go like that,’ Lettice said, hurrying up to her. ‘You’ve been upset all evening. What’s wrong, Josephine? Has something happened between you and Archie?’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s Lydia—I wasn’t expecting to see her tonight, and it was a bit awkward.’

‘Oh God—you know something about Marta, don’t you? Has she been in touch with you?’ Josephine nodded. ‘And she’s not ready for a happy reunion, by the sound of it?’

‘No, not at the moment. Perhaps not ever.’

‘Shouldn’t you tell Lydia?’

‘Yes, I should, but I need to think carefully about what I’m going to say first.’

‘Marta always liked you, didn’t she?’ Lettice looked at her and Josephine knew what was going through her mind, but she was kind enough not to force the point. Instead, she said: ‘I’m sure you’ll work it out, but if you need any help, you know where I am. No one else need ever know.’

Josephine smiled gratefully at her. ‘What will you tell the others? They’ll wonder why you’re chasing after me in the snow.’

‘No they won’t—they think I found your glove under the table.’ She squeezed Josephine’s hand. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

When Marjorie came round, she found herself lying on the workroom floor. All the main lights in the studio had been switched off, and the only glow in the room came from a lamp on Hilda Reader’s desk. It was desperately cold, and she tried to raise herself to a sitting position, but her body felt heavy and the nausea and dizziness were so extreme that she found it impossible to stay upright for more than a few seconds. Her head fell back on to the boards and she lay there in the silence, waiting for the symptoms to pass and trying to make sense of what had happened. The room was so quiet that she thought she was alone, but her relief was short-lived; a noise came from over to her left, a sound like pills being shaken from a bottle, and, as she listened more carefully, she could hear footsteps moving softly around the room. Something in their leisure-liness made her afraid.

She must have passed out again. When she regained consciousness, she was dimly aware of someone standing over her, then she felt hands under her arms, lifting and dragging her like an invalid over to the head cutter’s table. She was pulled roughly on to a chair, where her hands were fastened behind her with a length of soft material. Although she tried to protest, the words were thick and heavy in her mouth and the noise that came from her throat was unrecognisable even to her. A cold sweat broke out on her face and the palms of her hands, and—whilst a small part of her told her that it must be the effect of the spray she had inhaled—it felt like the physical expression of her fear, spreading slowly but irrevocably through her body. Desperately, she tried to see what was going on but there was a shadow between her and the lamp, and only when it moved away did she realise that what she had experienced so far was nothing compared to what was to come. The light from the lamp shone down on to a needle—not the sort that was commonplace on Hilda Reader’s desk but a sack needle, used for hessian rather than silk and familiar to Marjorie from her time in prison. Next to it were the beads she had bought that morning, still in their box. As the box was calmly lifted and opened, she heard again the sound which she had believed to be pills, and watched in horror as the beads poured out on to the desk in front of her, a stream of sharp, black glass.

The waiting was unbearable, eased only by the fact that she was so dreadfully tired. More than anything, she wanted to lie down again and allow unconsciousness to get the better of her, but she was tied to the chair and, in any case, what instinct for life she had left told her that she must try to stay awake. Her breathing came in deep, irregular sighs now, but she made one last effort to look this madness in the eye. It was her final act of defiance. The deadly calm was replaced in an instant by a frenzy of violence and hatred, and Marjorie felt hands on her face, wrenching her mouth open and stifling any attempts at a scream with handful after handful of glass. The sharp edges of the beads cut into her tongue and ground against her teeth, and her mouth began to fill with blood. She tried to spit the glass out before too much of it went back into her throat, but strong fingers held her nose, forcing her to swallow in order to breathe, and she felt the piercing certainty of death moving down into her stomach. Just for a second, the hands moved away and she was able to gasp for air, but the intensity of her breathing only served to aid the invasion of her body, leaving her choking and helpless, and then the torture began again. Her head was yanked back from behind and the needle tore through her skin, focusing her mind on a pain so great that nothing else existed, ripping the tissue in an outpouring of rage. The sensation of the thread moving in and out of her lips made her gag, but there was nowhere for the vomit to go except through her nose or back into her throat. She felt herself slowly suffocating, and her feet beat uselessly against the floor, counting out the final seconds of her life. Just before her vision began to fade, the hands were once more at her face, but this time the violence was gone. Unable to struggle any longer, Marjorie allowed her head to be moved gently round to the right and, in the full-length mirror which had been so carefully placed, she watched the ugly, humiliating horror of her own death.