Page 20 of The Lost Future of Pepperharrow

‘Beg pardon?’ said Ayame.

She couldn’t tell if he was acting. He was brilliant at looking innocent.

‘How are you feeling?’ Ayame added. ‘You mustn’t be nervous, I’m certain you’ll be splendid.’

She bowed and then watched him, and wondered if she’d got it all wrong, and she was about to crucify someone who was trying to do her a favour.

‘You look terrified,’ he laughed, and squeezed her knuckles. His hands were cool. ‘The gentlemen might be very illustrious, but nonetheless they are here to see the play. You’ve got your role, same as any other night. Do it well, and you’ll have your new name at the next ceremony. Yoshizawa Ayame IX; we’ll stitch it on your costumes together, hey?’

It was what she’d wanted ever since she’d joined the company.

It was the great evil of plays that every character had some kind of purpose. Absorb too much of them, and you could go about believing there was something wrong with you if you drifted unremarked towards your thirties, and coasted into a quiet beach of no interest to anyone. Whenever those thoughts arrived, she always heard her mother’s voice pointing out, not unreasonably, that she should be grateful. There was plenty to be grateful for, and it was childish to say it was hard to have seen Christopher Pepperharrow’s world, where everyone spoke three languages and travelled four times round the world in four years, and learned, and learned, and did things. A lot of people saw that and didn’t pine. None of her sisters did. Fumiko had married a lawyer.

‘Now paint over that ugly little badger face of yours,’ Ayame said. He patted her head.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. She pulled her sleeve over her forehead. She was so hot she felt like she was melting. Sweat was creeping down her back.

‘Come along, owl,’ Ayame said, and picked it up without any hesitation, as if it didn’t have a beak or talons. He put it just outside the door, where it walked off.

As soon as he’d gone to see the other actors, she took off the harness, picked up her bag, and slipped down the back stairs, fast. All she had to do was disappear. Going out the front door, by the ticket office, would be much easier than going out the back where everyone could see her.

She was only halfway down the stairs when someone caught the back of her collar.

‘Where in the world are you going?’ Ayame said in his bright way. However good he was at being a girl, he was very, very strong, and now she was nastily aware that he was a head taller than her. ‘Back in here.’

‘I just felt a bit faint. I thought I’d get some water from the bar—’

‘I’ll fetch it for you.’ He hadn’t let go of her collar. ‘You’ve no time. Get dressed.’

She pulled, and heard the stitching in her dress creak. ‘Just to get a bit of air that isn’t full of actors—’

He smacked her ear, hard. ‘You’re being hysterical. Don’t be nervous. In you go.’ He all but threw her up a couple of stairs.

She spun around and realised firstly that she was going to have to charge past him, and secondly that it wasn’t going to work. She might get to the bottom of the stairs, but then he’d be after her, and he was fit. Even if she got to the foyer, nobody would think anything of seeing an actor box a set girl’s ears.

She banged him aside with her shoulder. He caught her by her hair just as she reached the bar. The smell of hot wood and paper from the corridor vanished, replaced right on the threshold by caramel nuts, wood polish, and brandy vapour. It was so close to the main doors that she tried to wrench away, but it hurt too much.

‘No, no, no,’ Ayame said, still jolly. ‘Back you come.’

‘No—’

‘Hello,’ said a cultured voice. ‘What’s this?’

A gentleman was watching them. He was dressed in Western clothes, gorgeous ones, his hands sunk easily into his pockets and his shoulder against the wall. Even with Ayame’s fist clamped through her hair, Takiko thought he looked familiar: she’d seen him in the newspapers. He was one of those famous wealthy bachelors the society pages loved to gossip about. Southern-bronze, good looking, still young but not very.

‘Just a lazy girl, sir; don’t worry,’ Ayame smiled. Takiko tried to twist, but he clamped his hand tighter through her hair. She banged her elbow into his ribs and heard herself make a stupid helpless squeaking noise when he twisted her arm up too high behind her back.

Nobody except the gentleman was paying any attention. The bar was full of more men in lovely clothes, and there were two geisha with them – real, expensive, older geisha. A few people glanced over, but no one showed any more interest than that. Ayame pulled her back towards the stairs.

‘Wait. Miss – it is you,’ the gentleman said suddenly, as if they knew each other and he was delighted to see her again. ‘I haven’t seen you for years! You wouldn’t mind letting me borrow her?’ he said to Ayame. ‘I’m sure you can find someone else to do whatever she does.’

Takiko thought Ayame would say no, but the gentleman was watching him hard and suddenly the air was heavier than before. Ayame knew that if he annoyed the scion of a noble house it would stop people like Kuroda coming here. Any chance of royal patronage would be snuffed out. That was very definite. But he didn’t know for sure that Takiko meant to report anyone.

Ayame let go of her hair. The gentleman inclined his head to ask Ayame why he was still here. Ayame vanished back into the corridor.Takiko couldn’t believe it at first. Then her mother’s voice pointed out that things which were too good to be true generally weren’t. She turned slowly back to the gentleman and wondered what he expected, in return for rescue.

‘Sorry,’ said the gentleman. ‘I’ve seen you in the paper; you’re the actress, aren’t you?’

Takiko rubbed the back of her head. Her scalp hurt. ‘How do you know that? I’ve barely been on stage.’