It was Miss Fairchild – for the chances of her accepting Ava’s help with grace were about as high as Ava’s father declaring he had become a fully paid member of the Widows’ and Widowers’ Club.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The first time Ava had stepped inside the Penny Farthing Theatre, she’d thought it magical – with its cavernous underbelly, and all its twisting corridors. She remembered how her mother had let her try on some of the costumes, how she’d watched her paint her face with pale powder, and black kohl, until she didn’t look like her mother at all – but someone else. Someone ethereal.
Later, as she’d sat in the lobby with a sparkling ginger beer, her father in his finest suit, her brother tutting at having to wear oil in his hair – she’d felt as though this glittering world was real.
And she’d wanted to be a part of it.
She’d wanted to be part of what glittered, and shone.
And then she’d become an actress, herself – and she’d realized that it was a lie. For it wasn’t all champagne, and smiling, and applause. It was late nights, and long days. It was spending too much of her precious wages on gowns for the stage. It was the sneering looks she got from other women when she and Miss Fairchild went to the Adelphi, or the Shakespeare – for in their eyes, actresses were akin to the women who worked in brothels. Another type of woman who scratched a living from the shadows.
And suddenly, when it was her in that chair and not her mother, it didn’t feel magical anymore. When the only thing that glittered was the condensation slipping down the inside of every windowpane.
The echo of St Peter’s bell thudded through the square then, and Ava sucked in a deep breath as she stepped up the stone steps, into the theatre.
‘Miss Adams!’
Ava turned to find Bertie perched atop the narrow counter of the box office, a pipe clamped between her teeth, black hair slicked beneath her cap.
‘Bertie,’ said Ava, feeling some of the jittering beneath her skin begin to calm. ‘It’s nice to see you haven’t changed a jot.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bertie slid down, landing with a thud upon the rust-red carpet. ‘I bought a new cap.’
‘It looks remarkably similar to your old one.’
‘What can I say? I’m set in my ways.’
Ava smiled. ‘I missed you too, Bertie.’
‘A fair word of warning,’ Bertie said, beckoning for Ava to follow her. ‘Tommy has been insufferable all morning waiting for you. He’s got some choice insults up his sleeve, you know.’
‘I would expect nothing less,’ Ava said, the words needling her as she shadowed Bertie out of the foyer, and into the dressing room.
Though the theatre was large enough to have a separate room for costumes, and for dressing tables, and for hanging coats – somehow the frigid, windowless space behind the stage had become a home for all of these things and more.
And in the midst of everything sat the company. There was Stanley, now a pock-faced teenager, still utterly transfixed by Miss Fairchild – who sat perched on the edge of one of thetables, her dark hair swept into a meticulous bun. Beside her in the creaking armchair was Mr Green – stomach straining against his waistcoat, nose stuck in a book. Mrs Green was sitting beside him, with her wisping grey hair and her ever-red face, and – finally – there was Tommy Bratton.
Who stared squarely at Ava, his arms folded across his chest.
‘Miss Fairchild, you must be getting good,’ he called, loudly enough for the simmer of conversation to drop to a hush. ‘I think I see a ghost.’
Tommy could’ve been considered handsome – with his oiled blond hair, and his clear blue eyes – if he hadn’t spent quite so much time with his features scrunched up as though he smelled something rotten.
‘You all remember Miss Ava Adams,’ said Bertie, gesturing towards her.
‘Welcome back,’ croaked Stanley.
Miss Fairchild’s dark eyes met Ava’s pale grey ones, her gaze cold and flat. Only Patience the dog seemed happy to see her – her scraggly white tail wagging furiously – though she was held back from running to her by Mr Green, who had her collar with one hand, his book still in the other.
‘Now, now,’ said Mrs Green, her voice a fraction warmer. Mrs Green was the type of woman who looked as though she’d seen it all – and dealt with most of it with a worryingly calm voice and a wooden spoon. ‘I’m sure Ava here is going to explain herself. Aren’t you, Ava?’
‘Yes, of course. I believe I owe you all at least that much,’ said Ava, her heart thudding irregularly in her chest. She was desperately trying to remember what she’d scribbled into that notebook, andwhyshe’d believed it was a good idea to make amends. ‘I can only start by saying that my leaving you all wasn’t a … a calculated decision.’
‘Wellwesure felt it was,’ spat Tommy.
‘It wasn’t anything to do with any of you,’ said Ava, her face dangerously warm now. She was sure if she dared to peek into one of the mirrors, she’d be red from forehead to chin, and she cast a pleading look towards Bertie.
