A Prisoner of Birth (42 page)

D
ANNY ROSE FROM
his place and joined the standing ovation, not least because if he hadn't, he would have been one of the few people in the theater who was still sitting. He had enjoyed the play even more a second time, but that was possibly because he'd now had a chance to read the script.

Sitting in the third row among the family and friends of the cast had only added to his enjoyment. The set designer sat on one side of him, and the wife of the producer on the other. They invited him to join them for a drink in the extended interval. He listened to theater talk, rarely feeling confident enough to offer an opinion. It didn't seem to matter, as they all had unshakable views on everything from Davenport's performance to why the West End was full of musicals. Danny appeared to have only one thing in common with theater folk: none of them seemed to know what their next job would be.

After Davenport had taken countless curtain calls, the audience slowly made their way out of the theater. As it was a clear night, Danny decided he would walk to the Dorchester. The exercise would do him good, and in any case, he couldn't afford the expense of a cab.

He began to stroll toward Piccadilly Circus, when a voice behind him said, "Sir Nicholas?" He looked around to see the box office manager hailing him with one hand, while holding a taxi door open with the other. "If you're going to the party, why don't you join us?"

"Thank you," said Danny, and climbed in to find two young women sitting on the back seat.

"This is Sir Nicholas Moncrieff," said the box office manager as he unfolded one of the seats and sat down to face them.

"Nick," insisted Danny as he sat on the other folding seat.

"Nick, this is my girlfriend Charlotte. She works in props. And this is Katie, who's an understudy. I'm Paul."

"Which part do you understudy?" Nick asked.

"I stand in for Eve Best, who's been playing Gwendolen."

"But not tonight," said Danny.

"No," admitted Katie, as she crossed her legs. "In fact, I've only done one performance during the entire run. A matinee when Eve had to fulfill a commitment for the BBC."

"Isn't that a little frustrating?" asked Danny.

"It sure is, but it beats being out of work."

"Every understudy lives in hope that they'll be discovered while the lead is indisposed," said Paul. "Albert Finney took over from Larry Olivier when he was playing Coriolanus at Stratford, and became a star overnight."

"Well, it didn't happen the one afternoon I was on stage," said Katie with feeling. "What about you, Nick, what do you do?"

Danny didn't reply immediately, partly because no one except his probation officer had ever asked him that question. "I used to be a soldier," he said.

"My brother's a soldier," said Charlotte. "I'm worried that he might be sent to Iraq. Have you ever served there?"

Danny tried to recall the relevant entries in Nick's diary. "Twice," he replied. "But not recently," he added.

Katie smiled at Danny as the cab drew up outside the Dorchester. He remembered so well the last young woman who had looked at him that way.

Danny was the last to climb out of the taxi. He heard himself saying, "Let me get this one," quite expecting Paul's reply to be
certainly not
.

"Thanks, Nick," said Paul, as he and Charlotte strolled into the hotel. Danny took out his wallet and parted with another ten pounds he could ill afford—one thing was certain, he would be walking home tonight.

Katie hung back and waited for Nick to join her. "Paul tells me this is the second time you've seen the show," she said as they made their way into the hotel.

"I came on the off-chance you'd be playing Gwendolen," said Danny with a grin.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. Something else Danny hadn't experienced for a long time. "You're sweet, Nick," she said as she took his hand and led him into the ballroom.

"So what are you hoping to do next?" asked Danny, almost having to shout above the noise of the crowd.

"Three months of rep with the English Touring Company."

"Understudying again?"

"No, they can't afford understudies on tour. If anyone falls out, the program seller takes your place. So this is going to be my chance to be on stage, and your chance to come and see me."

"Where will you be performing?" asked Danny.

"Take your choice—Newcastle, Sheffield, Birmingham, Cambridge or Bromley."

"I think it will have to be Bromley," said Danny as a waiter offered them champagne.

He looked around the overcrowded room. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Those that weren't were drinking champagne, while others continually moved from person to person, hoping to impress directors, producers and casting agents in an endless quest to land their next job.

Danny let go of Katie's hand, recalling that, not unlike the out-of-work actors, he had a purpose for being there. He slowly scanned the room in search of Lawrence Davenport, but there was no sign of him. Danny assumed that he would make an entrance later.

"Bored with me already?" asked Katie, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

"No," said Danny unconvincingly, as a young man joined them.

"Hi, Katie," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Have you got another job lined up or are you resting?"

Danny took a sausage from a passing tray, remembering that he wouldn't be having anything else to eat that night. Once again he looked around the room in search of Davenport. His eyes rested on another man he should have realized might be there that evening. He was standing in the center of the room chatting to a couple of girls who were hanging on his every word. He wasn't as tall as Danny remembered from their last encounter, but then, it had been in an unlit alley, and his only interest had been in saving Bernie's life.

Danny decided to take a closer look. He took a pace toward him, and then another, until he was just a few feet away. Spencer Craig looked straight at him. Danny froze, then realized Craig was looking over his shoulder, probably at another girl.

Danny stared at the man who had killed his best friend and thought he'd got away with it. "Not while I'm still alive," said Danny, almost loud enough for Craig to hear. He took another pace forward, emboldened by Craig's lack of interest. Another pace, and a man in Craig's group, who had his back to Danny, instinctively turned around to see who was invading his territory. Danny came face to face with Gerald Payne. He'd put on so much weight since the trial that it was a few seconds before Danny recognized him. Payne turned back, uninterested. Even when he had appeared in the witness box, he hadn't given Danny a second look—no doubt part of the tactics Craig had advised him to adopt.

Danny helped himself to a smoked salmon blini while listening to Craig's conversation with the two girls. He was delivering an obviously well-rehearsed line about the courtroom being rather like the theater, except that you never know when the curtain will fall. Both girls dutifully laughed.

"Very true," said Danny in a loud voice. Craig and Payne both looked at him, but without a flicker of recognition, despite the fact that they had seen him in the dock only two years before, but at that time his hair had been a lot shorter, he had been unshaven and wearing prison clothes. In any case, why should they give Danny Cartwright a thought? After all, he was dead and buried.

"How are you getting on, Nick?" Danny turned to find Paul standing by his side.

"Very well, thank you," said Danny. "Better than I expected," he added without explanation. Danny took a pace closer to Craig and Payne so that they could hear his voice, but nothing seemed to distract them from their conversation with the two girls.

A burst of applause erupted around the room, and all heads turned to watch Lawrence Davenport as he made his entrance. He smiled and waved as if he were visiting royalty. He made his way slowly across the floor, receiving plaudits and praise with every step he took. Danny remembered F. Scott Fitzgerald's haunting line:
While the actor danced, he could find no mirrors, so he leant back to admire his image in the chandeliers.

"Would you like to meet him?" asked Paul, who had noticed that Danny couldn't take his eyes off Davenport.

"Yes, I would," said Danny, curious to discover if the actor would treat him with the same indifference as his fellow Musketeers.

"Then follow me." They began to make slow progress across the crowded ballroom, but before they reached Davenport, Danny came to a sudden halt. He stared at the woman the actor was addressing, with whom it was clear that he was on intimate terms.

"So good-looking," said Danny.

"Yes, he is, isn't he," agreed Paul, but before Danny could correct him, he said, "Larry, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Nick Moncrieff."

Davenport didn't bother to shake hands with Danny; he was just another face in the crowd hoping for an audience. Danny smiled at Davenport's girlfriend.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Sarah."

"Nick. Nick Moncrieff," he replied. "You must be an actress."

"No, far less glamorous. I'm a solicitor."

"You don't look like a solicitor," said Danny. Sarah didn't respond. She had clearly heard that dull response before.

"And are you an actor?" she asked.

"I'll be whatever you want me to be," Danny replied, and this time she did smile.

"Hi, Sarah," said another young man, putting an arm around her waist. "You are without question the most gorgeous woman in the room," he said before kissing her on both cheeks. Sarah laughed. "I'd be flattered, Charlie, if I didn't know that it's my brother you really fancy, not me."

"Are you Lawrence Davenport's sister?" said Danny in disbelief.

"Someone has to be," said Sarah. "But I've learned to live with it."

"What about your friend?" said Charlie, smiling at Danny.

"I don't think so," said Sarah. "Nick, this is Charlie Duncan, the play's producer."

"Pity," said Charlie, and turned his attention to the young men who were surrounding Davenport.

"I think he fancies you," said Sarah.

"But I'm not . . ."

"I'd just about worked that out," said Sarah with a grin.

Danny continued to flirt with Sarah, aware that he no longer needed to bother with Davenport when his sister could undoubtedly tell him everything he needed to know.

"Perhaps we might—" began Danny, when another voice said, "Hi, Sarah, I was wondering if . . ."

"Hello, Spencer," she said coldly. "Do you know Nick Moncrieff?"

"No," he replied, and after a cursory handshake, he continued his conversation with Sarah. "I was just coming across to tell Larry how brilliant he was when I spotted you."

"Well, now's your chance," said Sarah.

"But I was also hoping to have a word with you."

"I was just about to leave," said Sarah, checking her watch.

"But the party's only just begun, can't you hang around a little longer?"

"I'm afraid not, Spencer. I need to go over some papers before briefing counsel."

"It's just that I was hoping . . ."

"Just as you were on the last occasion we met."

"I think we got off on the wrong foot."

"I seem to remember it being the wrong hand," said Sarah, turning her back on him.

"Sorry about that, Nick," said Sarah. "Some men don't know when to take no for an answer, while others . . ." She gave him a gentle smile. "I hope we'll meet again."

"How do I—" began Danny, but Sarah was already halfway across the ballroom; the kind of woman who assumes that if you want to find her, you will. Danny turned back to see Craig looking more closely at him.

"Spencer, good of you to come," said Davenport. "Was I all right tonight?"

"Never better," said Craig.

Danny thought it was time to leave. He no longer needed to talk to Davenport, and like Sarah, he also had a meeting he had to prepare for. He intended to be wide awake when the auctioneer called for an opening bid for Lot 37.

"Hi, stranger. Where did you disappear to?"

"Ran into an old enemy," said Danny. "And you?"

"The usual bunch. So boring," said Katie. "I've had enough of this party. How about you?"

"I was just leaving."

"Good idea," said Katie, taking him by the hand. "Why don't we jump ship together?"

They walked across the ballroom and headed toward the swing doors. Once Katie had stepped out onto the pavement, she hailed a taxi.

"Where to, miss?" asked the driver.

"Where are we going?" Katie asked Nick.

"Twelve The Boltons."

"Right you are, guv," said the cabbie, which brought back unhappy memories for Danny.

Danny hadn't even sat down before he felt a hand on his thigh. Katie's other arm draped around his neck, and she pulled him toward her.

"I'm sick of being the understudy," she said. "I'm going to take the lead for a change." She leaned across and kissed him.