A Class Apart (17 page)

“How’s Kate’s mother?”

“Not too good, I’m afraid. She was calling Alex Jonathan all day, which didn’t go down too well.”

“Oh dear,” said her mother. “He didn’t misbehave, did he?”

“Not really.”

“How could he? He’s his father’s son,” said Keith, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Well, I’m for bed,” said Mr Lakeman. “What about you, Rachel?”

“Well, there’s a Gene Kelly film on at eleven. Thought I might . . .” She caught her husband’s eye. “No, you’re quite right, I am a bit tired. Besides, I’ve had enough telly for one day.”

Ashley made to follow her mother, but Keith grabbed her hand.

“Goodnight then, you two,” said Mr Lakeman.

“Night, Dad,” said Ashley.

“Goodnight,” said Keith.

Keith pressed the button on the remote control to turn off the television.

“Think I’ll go on up myself,” said Ashley.

“Don’t go yet. Why don’t we have a nightcap? Just the two of us.”

Ashley didn’t want to be rude, but neither did she relish the idea of “just the two of us”.

“Come on,” he said, going over to the drinks trolley. “It’s not often we’re on our own and able to talk.”

She sighed. “I’ll have a Cointreau.”

Seeing his pleasure made Ashley feel sad. It was a strange world that created this mysterious chain of love.

“I was wondering,” he said, coming back with their drinks, “will you be here for New Year’s Eve?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

“It would be nice if you could be. For Alex, I mean.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t really understand about New Year’s Eve yet. He’ll be asleep by ten o’clock.”

Keith laughed. “I guess you’re right. Nothing going on in London then, I take it?”

“Nothing that I know of, yet. How about you? What will you be doing?”

“Haven’t actually planned anything,” he answered. “Play it by ear, I suppose.”

She nodded and sipped her drink. She couldn’t help wondering how things might have turned out had they stayed together. It was at moments like this, when she was feeling lonely and vulnerable, that she remembered all the good times. All the times when they had sat together, just like they were doing now, and talked into the night. There was no doubt she had loved him once, but that seemed such a long time ago now. So much had happened since.

It was dark in the room, only the glow from the fire and a distant lamp lit up their faces, and she thought how romantic this could be. She looked at Keith and found him watching her. She smiled. She would always have a fondness for him, even after all that had happened.

“What would you say to coming out for dinner with me on New Year’s Eve?” he said, quietly.

She turned away and immediately felt guilty for it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s too soon, of course.”

“No,” she said. “Please don’t be sorry. I’d love to have dinner with you on New Year’s Eve. Thank you for asking me.”

“Do you mean it?”

She smiled and nodded.

“I’ll come up to London if you like.”

“No, let’s go somewhere local.”

“OK. I’ll book somewhere. How about the Grange?”

It was the restaurant where he had proposed to her. “OK, let’s go to the Grange.”

He raised his glass to her as if sealing their arrangement. “I was going to ask you anyway. It’s not just because of Julian.”

She smiled.

“You still love him?”

Ashley stiffened.

“Sorry,” he said, “I . . .”

“It doesn’t matter. The answer is yes. Yes, I do still love him.”

“Would you take him back, if he asked?”

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

“I thought you’d say that.” He hesitated, fiddling with his glass. “But you won’t come back to me?”

“Oh, Keith, please,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “don’t let’s go all through that again.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help it. I love you so much, and I miss Alex. It’s terrible seeing him like this you know, only on the occasional weekend and sometimes during the week. I want to help him with his schoolwork and share in his sports days, as his real father, not just a visiting father. And I should have been the one to buy him a dog, and I should have been with him on Christmas Day. I’m afraid of him growing up without me. Afraid that things are happening so quickly that I shall be left behind and I won’t even know him any more, my own son.”

He looked down at the wedding ring that she still wore, despite the fact that they had been divorced for over two years. “Things are different now, you know,” he said. “I hardly drink any more, or gamble. I haven’t looked at another woman in ages. It’s only you that I want, Ash. You and Alex, my own family.”

Ashley pulled her hand away and sat forward.

“I’ll wait, Ash.” he said. “I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll wait. I’ll always be here if you need me. I’ll always care. And I’ll never let you down again, I swear it.”

“Oh, Keith,” she said. “I believe you really do mean it.”

“I do, Ashley. I’ve never stopped thinking of you as my wife. And all that business three years ago . . .” he looked away unable to carry on. Ashley reached out for his hand. She knew how painful it was for him to talk about the way he had threatened to kill himself if she didn’t go back to him. And then the threats to take Alex away to a place she would never find them.

He gripped her hand tightly. “Just tell me that maybe one day there is a chance you will be my wife again.”

“I can’t say it. You know I can’t.” She leaned back and rested her head against the settee. Life would be so much simpler if she could love him again. They could be a family again, a real family. And Alex would have his father and she would have the love and security she wanted. She would always want to work, she knew that; she also knew that Keith would take her back on any terms, just so that he could be with Alex again. And she wouldn’t have to dread going into the office every day. She could join an agency nearer to home. If she were to return to Keith, then everything would be all right. It would all work out.

She felt his arm go round her shoulders and allowed him to take the glass from her hand. Turning back to her he took her in his arms and kissed her gently. Feeling confused and lonely, she let him go on kissing her.

ELEVEN

The reviews for Bob McElfrey’s production of
Twelfth Night
were, in the main, exceptional. Even Bob himself had not dared to hope for such a reception. Modestly he put it down to the modern interpretations of Shakespeare’s plays that had plagued the theatre in recent years, and the critics seemed to agree with him.

“If we didn’t know it before, we certainly know it now,” wrote one, “we want our classical Shakespeare. And we want our lighter Shakespeare too. Thank you to Bob McElfrey for giving it.” “It is a piece of theatre, unsurpassed in recent years,” wrote another. “A delicate, and romantic story, told with all the feeling and humour we have come to expect from one of our finest directors.” There were also those who wrote jubilantly, of how the timing and delivery had them “laughing in the aisles”, and “crying out for more”. But one critic had been cruel in her write-up on the performance given by Maureen Woodley: “She was better cast as Viola disguised as the man, it was only then that she approached belief.”

Bob thought that was a bit strong, but he had to admit that for some reason Maureen had not got to grips with her character. And what was worse, she didn’t seem to care. Bob had been so angry with her he had hardly spoken to her when they had all joined up for the first-night party afterwards. He didn’t want to risk a showdown, not when everyone else was basking in their triumph. But no one had been surprised when he had called for rehearsals again the following day.

The stage manager had booked the rehearsal room for the day. Bob felt it might be better for Maureen to be away from the theatre until they played again tonight. He had called the whole cast for the afternoon; Maureen’s wasn’t the only performance that needed sharpening, despite what the critics had said.

Ellamarie was sitting at the side of the room with Nicholas Gough. They were watching Maureen rehearse with David Flood, who was playing Orsino. Every now and again she caught Bob’s eye, and her heart turned over. Eventually Bob grinned and turned his script table away from her, deciding that he really must concentrate harder on the task in hand.

Ellamarie smiled, able to read his mind, and felt a surge of joy that Christmas was finally over and they were back together again. She returned her attention to Maureen Woodley. Despite her feelings towards Maureen, she had to admit that she was a gifted actress – at least this morning she was. Ellamarie shook her head, and wondered what had happened to Maureen the night before.

Bob hardly interrupted Maureen’s performance at all, there was no need, but whenever he did, Maureen responded perfectly. And she smiled at him, and laughed when he delivered the lines himself. Then, with the scene over, she turned to him for his approval, and got it.

The next scene did not include either Maureen or Ellamarie, so they both watched as the others rehearsed. At least Maureen did, but Ellamarie was still, from the corner of her eye, watching Maureen. Maureen barely took her eyes from Bob.

As the morning wore on Ellamarie’s expression turned from interest to incredulity. Maureen Woodley had a crush on Bob! Ellamarie was shocked. She’d no idea that Maureen harboured feelings of that kind for him. She’d certainly never noticed them before. When had this started?

Ellamarie became so engrossed by Maureen’s double-edged performance that she hardly noticed when Bob called out for the others to come and join the discussion. He turned to look at her, and Maureen’s face contorted with anger. Ellamarie flinched to see such venom.

“I want you all to listen to this,” Bob was saying, as the others crowded round. “We’re talking about options for pauses.” Everyone laughed and groaned. “Yes,” he said, holding up his hand, “that old one.” He turned to David and Maureen. “Right,” he said, “run that last bit again.”

“Where shall we take it from?” said David.

“Take it from ‘My life upon’t’,” Bob answered, and stood back to watch with the audience of other actors.

“My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?”

“A little, by your favour.”

“What kind of woman is’t?”

“Of your complexion.”

Bob held up his hand. “Maureen, why not pick up the cue for ‘Of your complexion’ immediately, but then hold for the rest of the line. Do you see what I mean? Of . . . your complexion.’ I think you’ve been caught a bit on the hop there, maybe you shouldn’t be so slick with an answer. Try it.”

Maureen smiled at him, and turned to face David. “Of . . . your complexion,” she repeated. “Oh yes!” she shrieked, turning back to Bob. “That’s exactly right. It feels absolutely perfect. Thank you.”

Bob nodded to her, then looked round as he felt the stage manager tugging at his sleeve. She was pointing to her watch.

“OK, everyone,” he shouted. “Get some tea, and back in ten minutes. I’m not going to run the whole thing through, but I do want you all here, so no running off.”

He went back to his table and took the libretto for
Don Giovanni
from his case. He’d have to spend the day at Lilian Bayliss House tomorrow rehearsing, so he might as well take the opportunity of this break to go over the opera again. He opened it, groaned inwardly, and decided a cup of tea might help.

Pushing open the door of the small kitchen at the end of the room, he stopped at the sound of Maureen’s high-pitched voice. Nobody had seen him come in, and he was just in time to hear Maureen, with an affected American accent, drawl towards Ellamarie’s back: “O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou, Romeo?” She lowered her voice and mimicked Bob’s mildly Scottish tone. “At home with my wife, dearest.”

“Maureen!” She spun round as Bob snapped her name. “A word, please.”

Maureen followed him out into the hall. He motioned for her to close the kitchen door, then waited beside his table. There was no one else around, they couldn’t be overheard.

“Maureen,” he said, the smooth tone of his voice belying the anger in his eyes, “you know there are still things that need perfecting in your performance. Perhaps if you concentrated a little harder on that, and less on other members of the cast, we might get somewhere.”

Maureen’s face turned puce, but she didn’t quite have the courage to say what was on her mind.

“Now go and get your tea and work over your lines with David. By ridiculing Ellamarie you are also ridiculing me, and I will not stand for it, do you hear me? You are
not
irreplacable.”

To his dismay, she looked on the brink of tears. He hadn’t expected her to cry. Shout, and stamp her feet, yes. But not tears.