‘She told me something about a permission slip when we chatted on the phone. I’m stunned that Kate has signed it.’
‘Oh, she hasn’t. It was Andy. Didn’t even check with Kate. Just signed it.’
‘Well, wonders will never cease.’
Bridie laughed. ‘That’s what I thought. Andy actually making a decision for once without checking in with Kate. Mind you, I think that was my fault.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s seen how successful I’ve turned out with my career on the stage, and with no shortage of work. I’d just better keep it up. Don’t want to let Layla or Andy down.’
Grandad chuckled. ‘You are the consummate professional. I can’t see what could possibly go wrong.’
Chapter 4
The slap came before Bridie even realised she’d lifted her hand. It echoed louder than any line in the play.
A gasp rippled across the packed West End audience. The orchestra faltered. For a frozen second, the world seemed to hold its breath – and then chaos descended. Her co-star, with her glossy hair and sharp smile, lunged at her like a cat. They grappled centre-stage, hissing words the audience couldn’t hear, the velvet curtain shuddering as the stage manager yanked it down far too early. Bridie couldn’t stop herself. She had lunged, fingers tangling in the hair of her co-star; the very same woman she had discovered was sleeping with her fiancé.
Security intervened before the curtain could be dragged down, but the damage was already done. The headlines would be brutal.
By the time they were dragged apart backstage, Bridie’s cheek burned from scratches, her chest heaved with fury, and she knew she’d just destroyed the career she’d spent a decade building.
Worse still, it would all be over social media. She’d caught a fleeting glimpse of the audience, phones held aloft, filming every second of her shameful catfight on stage. She’d even thoughtshe heard a small child asking why the fairy godmother and the princess were fighting when they were meant to be friends.
‘You’re finished!’ Julian’s voice cut through the noise of booing coming from the audience when they realised the show wasn’t continuing. He stood, immaculate as ever, beside the wings. Not rushing to her defence. Not even pretending to care. His lips curled in disgust. ‘No one will hire you now, Bridie. You’ll never work in this town again.’
Bridie glared at him. She had the impulse to laugh. It sounded like a line from a movie. Perhaps it was. But she didn’t laugh when she thought:His town. His world. His theatre.And what was she? Nothing more than a discarded actress who’d made a scene.
Back at their flat, she packed quickly, stuffing dresses and shoes into a suitcase, her fingers trembling. She couldn’t bear to look at the details that had once made her feel at home: the wine glasses they’d clinked after her West End debut, the stack of scripts by his chair, the framed posters of shows he’d produced – all suddenly poisoned by what she’d discovered.
She picked up a photo taken on the opening night of the current show. They were raising their glasses of bubbly, toasting another successful production backstage, standing for the photo in front of the rest of the cast.
Who would have thought, a few short weeks later, that she’d be involved in a fight on that very stage, all because ofthat woman!Bridie grimaced at the small crowd of performers gathered around them in the photo. It wasn’t their fault that she’d got into a fight and the curtain had had to come down early.
Perhaps the show would go on. Not with Bridie, the star of the show, but with her understudy. That depended, she imagined,on whether what had happened would pull in even bigger audience numbers after it had been posted on social media. Perhaps people would choose to stay away in droves instead, cancelling their tickets and demanding refunds.
It’s not fair,Bridie thought.It wasn’t my fault – it was hers!She looked at the photo. She was there too, that woman. Bridie stabbed her head with her forefinger.
She stared at the photo, shaking her head. The Saturday matinee performance had not got off to a good start. Bridie had overheard a private conversation. The moment she’d seen the two young performers huddled together backstage – they were all at least ten years younger than her, in their early twenties – she’d realised they were talking about her because they quickly hushed when they turned around and saw her. But the damage was done; she’d overheard every word.
‘Do you think she knows?’ she’d overheard them say.
‘I don’t think so. Unless she saw what we saw – Stella making out with Julian.’
‘God, that’s awful.’
‘Don’t you fancy him? I thought everyone did.’
‘Well, I don’t. And I feel sorry for Bridie. How many do you think he’s slept with over the years? Someone needs to tell her she’s been made a right fool of behind her back.’
‘You tell her, then.’
‘No way! I’d rather keep my job. What if she doesn’t believe me and she goes to Julian and he denies it, and fires me … us?’
‘Oh, you’ve got a point. It’s hard enough getting a foot in the door without pissing off a producer. I think we should keep our mouths shut.’
‘A bit too late for that,’ Bridie said sarcastically, standing right behind them, arms folded, making them both jump in surprise at the sound of her voice.
