‘Mmm. Not quite a “champagne” occasion, is it?’ Lillian said, her dark eyes catching Ava’s. That was what they’dordered the last time they’d sat at this table together – half of it frothing over the bottle’s lip and onto the floor.
‘To the future Mrs Foster,’ Lillian had said, raising a fizzing glass, her smile not quite reaching her dark eyes. ‘And your engagement.’
‘To my engagement,’ Ava had said, the excitement within her stomach melding with something else. ‘Not that it will change much between us.’
Of course that had been a lie. It had changed everything. And now when Lillian looked at her, her eyes narrowing, Ava saw all the moments that had passed since that one: the late nights, the rows, the early starts in rehearsal, crying in the darkness of the mop cupboard, standing upon the stage, the heat of the limelight making the sweat drip in lines from her temple to her chin.
‘Oliver told me,’ said Ava, feeling the weight that had sat within her stomach since their walk to the market two days ago grow a pound heavier. ‘He said you lent him money after the accident.’
Lillian’s expression tweaked, and she reached into her pocket, pulling out her gold case of cigarettes. ‘We will get to the topic of your brother,’ Lillian said. ‘First tell me about Edinburgh.’
‘Well, it was wetter than here.’
‘I care nothing forweather,’ tutted Lillian, a flicker of her Hungarian accent peeking through. ‘What did you do for work? Bertie couldn’t find you on any of the bills there.’
‘Nothing,’ said Ava, keeping her tone light.
‘Nothing?’ Lillian’s eyes widened in her long-perfected look of utter innocence, at the same moment as the barman placed a teapot, two cups, and two new saucers down. Beside them he placed a rather miserly number of sugar cubes (two) and a dribble of milk in a small jug. ‘You expect me to believe you didnothing? Forthree months?’
Ava reached for the teapot, trying to focus on the curling steam, the shards of green-brown tea leaves floating in her cup. ‘I did nothing that would interest you, Lillian.’
Lillian narrowed her eyes. ‘Try me.’
‘Tell me how much Oliver owes you,’ Ava said firmly, matching Lillian’s steely gaze with her own. ‘And I will repay it.’
Lillian watched her for a long moment, her dark eyes roaming Ava’s face, as though trying to see beneath her skin. Then her brow smoothed. ‘I’ve an easier solution. Come back to the Penny Farthing.’
‘No.’ Ava could feel the warmth spreading up her neck now, and it took more courage than she cared to admit to keep her eyes on Lillian, to keep her chin raised. ‘I shan’t perform again.’
Lillian gave her a wide, carefree smile – and it set Ava’s teeth on edge. ‘Oh, I’m not asking you to perform,’ she said simply. ‘I want you to coach Miss Fairchild. She has taken over your mother’s act.’
It shouldn’t have hurt. She had no right to feel sore – for the act wasn’t her mother’s any longer, and it wasn’t Ava’s, either. She had set it aside, hadn’t she? So then why did she care if another plucked it up?
‘I take it you’re using the stooges?’ Ava asked, wishing she could better hide the brittleness that’d sneaked into her tone. ‘Tommy, Stanley, and the rest?’
Lillian nodded. ‘But the script is flat. She hasn’t your training – your knowledge of the craft. You had all these good lines – about Frank something or other—’
‘Franz Mesmer,’ corrected Ava. ‘The father of mesmerism. He was the one who coined the name “mesmerism”, in fact, although his theories have been somewhat disregarded now—’
‘See?’ Lillian’s eyes sparkled. ‘This is why I need you. Why Miss Fairchild needs you. Yourpassion.’
Ava shook her head. ‘I doubt the others would want me back at the theatre.’
‘The others? Forget them.’ Lillian lit another cigarette. Ava hated the smell of tobacco, hated the way it seemed to spread and permeate everything, but she stayed at that table, her fingers clutched around her weak cup of tea. ‘Do it for Oliver.’
‘I can find another way to repay the money he owes you—’
‘Oh, it’s not just money he owes me,’ Lillian said, blowing smoke upwards, towards the ceiling. ‘It’s more than that.’
‘How can it be more than that?’
‘I know his secret,’ said Lillian, not looking at her.
Ava felt Lillian’s words like a dragging heat across her heart. She’d known since they were children – since he’d blushed at the baker’s lad, rather than the pretty girls at church – though no-one but her had seemed to notice.
‘And I know you know it, too.’ Lillian added. ‘We both know what that kind of a secret can do to a man. And what that secret in the wrong hands might mean …’
Oliver wouldn’t have told Lillian, Ava told herself. He wouldn’t have been foolish enough to tell someone like her. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to tellanyone, because his secret was dangerous.
