Caught in the Act (11 page)

There was a moment then—a pause that no one rushed to fill—and so Fiona sailed on. ‘Actually the
Macbeth
tour was before
Casualty
, but a part like the dark lady never re ally leaves you. It is such a powerful role. Very harrowing…' Her face folded into a theatrical interpre
tation of harrowing and then snapped back. ‘Where are we going, by the way?'

‘The scenic route,' said Netty coolly, as they turned the corner of Burbeck House and started across the lawn, through a sea of shadows…

‘Teddy Towers,' added Carol with a wry grin.

Fiona giggled. ‘What a sweet name. Isn't there a path? My heels keep sinking into the grass. It's such a shame Mummy couldn't have come as well. She was terribly keen. She would have loved this place but she's a little unsteady on her legs these days. She sends her love, by the way, and she said that she'll be here for the performance on Sunday. You know you lot haven't changed at all, have you?'

No, thought Carol darkly as they started to climb the fire escape up to the bear-infested dormitory, and neither have you.

‘She seems nicer than I remember,' said Diana quietly to Carol, as they clambered in through the open window. Carol lifted an eyebrow and stared at her; maybe Netty was right about their bullshit detectors, after all.

‘Oh my God,' Fiona said, once they were in and she had dragged the suitcase in over the sill. ‘No, no, no. I'm sorry, but no. This re ally will not do.'

‘Welcome to Burbeck House drama tour,' said Jan, who was already in the dormitory and was busy pulling a soft creamy white pashmina out of one of her bags. ‘We're all off down the pub, apparently. Where the hell did you lot get to?'

‘Netty was taking us on the Cook's tour. When we say “we” are going down the pub, who do
we
mean exactly?' said Carol, taking a cardigan out of her suitcase.

‘Everybody, I think, except one of the technical crew, who apparently grew up to be a born-again Christian and plans to stay here and pray for us.'

‘Is that Tim Goldman?' said Netty, who was still outside on the fire escape, finishing off her fag.

Jan nodded. ‘Yes, very tall and thin with glasses and an Adam's apple like a cocktail onion. He came over and introduced himself when you lot buggered off. Here, he gave me one of these for each of you.' She took a little pile of pamphlets out of her handbag and read the titles of the first couple. ‘You can take your pick. We've got something on the evils of demon drink or alternatively a cheery little article on moral decline in the new millennium.'

She dropped them onto one of the bedside cabinets. ‘No pushing now, there's plenty to go round.'

‘I thought you were going to talk to Adie?' said Netty casually.

Jan sniffed and adjusted her pashmina. ‘I didn't think now was the moment.'

Carol pulled on her cardigan and added a teeny-weeny bit more lipstick, waiting to hear if there was more.

Fiona, meanwhile, was still standing in the centre of the room as if she was waiting for them to fall silent, and as soon as they did she shook her head and put her hands on her hips. ‘This is absolutely ridiculous. I am
not
sleeping in here. Is this some kind of joke? It is, isn't it? You think this is funny, don't you? That it is some kind of good joke to tease me—well, it's not. It's cruel.' There was a perfectly timed catch in Fiona's voice that hinted at tears. Above her a lampshade covered in bright pink cartoon bears swung gently in the breeze from the open window.

Diana appeared to be about to launch into her big bear/dormitory apology speech again when Carol decided enough was enough. ‘Oh, for heaven's sake, get over it, Fiona. It isn't a
joke, it's clean, it's cheap and cheerful and it's only for the weekend. It's not a problem.'

‘Not for you, maybe. Mummy did warn me.' Fiona's nostrils flared. Carol stared at her; God, she had completely forgotten that look, the one that made you think someone had just slid a warm gift-wrapped dog turd under Fiona's nose.

‘Oh, no,' Fiona said more slowly in case they had missed it first time round. ‘No, I re ally don't think so. I don't do dormitories. I don't do communal and I most definitely do not do bears.' She pulled a little silver mobile out of her handbag. ‘What is the name of the pub in the village?'

‘The Master's Arms,' Diana said helpfully.

‘Did you ever play Violet Elizabeth in
Just William
?' Netty asked helpfully.

Fiona, choosing to ignore her, slipped the earpiece into her ear. Her gaze slipped out of focus as she asked directory enquiries for the number and got them to text it through, and they all watched her as she did—which, Carol thought, was probably exactly what Fiona had in mind. It was just like her big moment in
Casualty
all over again. Fiona rang the pub. Everyone waited to hear the outcome.

‘Apparently they don't do accommodation,' growled Fiona a few seconds later.

Netty, still out on the fire escape, said, ‘Well, there we are then—that's that settled. I think those bunks over there are free.' She waved her cigarette around vaguely.

Fiona sniffed. ‘What, the ones near the bathroom? I don't think so, there must be more somewhere else. I'm not sleeping in a room full of other people, and most certainly not next to the bathroom.'

Diana opened her mouth again to say something, maybe the apology speech, maybe a suggestion, maybe an offer to swap places, but whatever it was she stopped as soon as she spotted Carol glaring at her. Carol glanced left and right; to see that her expression was mirrored on Netty's face and Jan's.

‘This is totally and utterly ridiculous,' Fiona hissed.

Netty, Carol and Jan shrugged. Synchronised shrugging. It might never make it as an Olympic event but it was remarkably effective.

Fiona sniffed and straightened up.

While they had been on tour with the school she had always managed to blag her way into better accommodation—mainly because her
mother insisted on having a separate room and then suggested, given Fiona's delicate constitution, that it might be easier if they moved an extra bed in so that Mummy could keep an eye on her brave little kitten.

But this time Mummy wasn't here.

There was a moment's intense silence when Carol could almost feel Fiona exerting psychic pressure on them all to try to come up with a better solution. Emotional blackmail is potent stuff when finely tuned; Carol did wonder whether Fiona might break out an emergency asthma attack or palpitations or even hock up a fur ball; whatever it was it would have to be something hugely impressive to move her current audience.

Finally her shoulders dropped a little and she made a noble attempt at a stoic smile. ‘Well, I suppose that we're all in this together, aren't we? The show must go on and all that. Which bunk did you say was free?'

‘Either of those two over there,' said Netty, waving towards a set of bunks that stood between the toilet door and the open window and that had no luggage or coats on them. Fiona sighed. It was way out beyond theatrical into something far more cosmic and all-consuming.

‘And hurry up,' snapped Netty, lighting up another cigarette. ‘The pub closes at half-ten.'

‘Yes, exactly,' said a male voice. ‘And I could re ally use a drink.'

Adie appeared behind Netty, and an instant later Gareth joined them. As soon as their eyes met Carol felt a funny little ripple in her belly and then sighed. It was going to be a long weekend.

‘I wondered if we might talk,' said George Bearman, topping up his coffee cup and lifting the pot in Callista's direction by way of an invitation. ‘Would you care to join me in a refill?'

She declined with a shake of the head. ‘Not for me, George, thanks. Very kind but I'll be up all night.' He grinned and Callista looked away, refusing to be tangled up in some boyish double entendre.

The dining room was almost empty now; they were amongst the last people left seated at the top table, up there under the bunting, surrounded by the debris of crumpled paper napkins, discarded mint wrappers, gravy rings and crumbs.

‘Or would you rather that we went down to
the pub with the rest of them?' he said, indicating the open French windows. ‘It's a lovely evening for a walk.'

Callista shook her head again. ‘No, but please don't let me stop you, George. I was actually thinking that I might have an early night. It was a long drive down here. It seems to have been a long day.'

George Bearman looked crestfallen. ‘Ah yes, of course, so sorry. I'd forgotten. Yorkshire, wasn't it?'

Callista nodded and began to gather her things together, her handbag and cardigan and glasses. It was hard not to feel sorry for him.

As George drained his cup he pulled a face and grimaced. ‘Actually you've not missed much. It's stone cold.' And then, in a slightly lower tone he added, ‘You know, Callista, I've been looking forward to this weekend enormously. I mean, I don't want to sound pathetic or anything but it has meant a great deal to me to see you again.'

She didn't like to tell him that he had already told her. Instead she nodded again.

He laughed nervously. ‘Anyway, as you say, maybe an early night might be a good idea. Who knows what tomorrow's going to bring,
and the old grey matter isn't quite what it used to be.' He got somewhat unsteadily to his feet. ‘So—up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire it is then.'

Callista looked at him in astonishment. Was he still saying that after all these years? God, she would have killed him by now if they had ended up together. Ah, well. The important thing was that they hadn't ended up together and on Sunday evening she would be heading home to Laurence, a man who loved her and who she loved, while George would be driving home to ice-cold Judy. It was a sobering thought. Maybe she was being too hard on him.

‘Then again,' said Callista brightly, ‘I don't suppose another half an hour will make that much difference one way or the other and I was rather hoping that we could get some time to talk about the plans for the weekend.' She pulled her bag up onto her lap and took out a ring binder. ‘I've got a few ideas and some notes. I was wondering exactly how much of the play we should aim to get through. Have you had any thoughts on it?'

She glanced across the table; George looked hurt and slightly put out.

Callista realised her mistake immediately.
‘Ah—you didn't mean you wanted to talk about the play, did you, George? I thought we had been through all this in the pub earlier.'

‘No, that's fine, just fine,' he said, and pulled his chair a little closer. Too close, if Callista was honest. He smiled with false heartiness. ‘Righty-ho—now tell me, what have you in mind for the read-through?'

Callista stared into his big ruddy face and wished—not for the first time since she had known him—that George Bearman could read minds. She wanted him to understand that their relationship had been over for so long that she had almost completely forgotten all about it. She wanted him to understand that he had waited all those years for nothing and that it was time for him to move on, to finally leave Judy and try to find something special, something better before it was too late. But then again, George Bearman hadn't been able to guess what she was thinking when they saw each other every day, hadn't been able to read her mind when they were sleeping together, so what possible hope was there now?

Callista stared at her notes and, swallowing back a knot of grief for something long gone, said, ‘Well let's just recap, shall we? It's been a
while since I did
Macbeth
. Act One, first three scenes.' She began to read the tidy little notes that she'd made. ‘There's Macbeth and Banquo meeting the witches on the heath, then the witches welcome Macbeth as Lord of Glamis, even though they've never met him before and tell him he's going to be Thane of Cawdor and the King of Scotland, but that Banquo—his friend—will be the father of a line of kings after Macbeth. Then there's Macbeth contemplating the idea of killing the old king, Duncan, so that he can get the throne as the witches have promised him.'

George said nothing so Callista continued, running her finger along the notes. She sighed; it was like pulling teeth. It felt like a pre-exam recap for her GCSE students, but then at least, she thought, if they talked about Macbeth they didn't need to talk about each other.

‘I've always thought it is a great opening to a play and we need those first few scenes, because it explains the background for the whole story. It gives us the reason Macbeth later kills Banquo—gives us a handle on his jealousy, and it sets the scene for supernatural goings-on later in the play. I was thinking that we could have a narrator to fill in the bits that
we decide to cut. Although obviously we'll need to see tomorrow just who we've got here from the original cast. I didn't actually do a head count but Diana said that everyone has shown up so we could possibly run the whole thing. What do you think?'

George Bearman nodded again and then, leaning forward, patted her on the knee. ‘It's so good to see you again.'

Callista looked up into his eyes and wondered for a moment if he had heard a single word she had said.

Meanwhile, down at the Master's Arms, Carol stepped outside, away from the noise of the public bar into the warm stillness of a summer night and switched on her mobile phone. It rang almost at once with a message on voice mail. It was Raf.

He always sounded deliciously Irish with just a hint of horniness when recorded; a talent that on other occasions would have made her go weak at the knees. Tonight it just made her feel guilty. Carol sighed; what the hell was she doing lusting after Gareth Howard when she had a man like Raf waiting for her at home? Damn…She closed her eyes and listened to him, not that that re ally helped.

‘Hi, love, I just rang to make sure you'd arrived safe and sound.' There was a slight pause. ‘I miss you, the bed's going to be very empty tonight. I was thinking maybe I'd ask that woman from next door round—you know, the one with the skimpy little bikini that I pointed out to you on the linen line,' he said in that warm dark brown brogue. ‘I hope that you're having a grand time. We're OK—no major domestic incidents or breakages yet but we're working on it. I'm taking the lads out later to pillage that new pizza place in the High Street. You know how much I hate recorded messages—they feel like a trick—and I can never think of anything wildly funny or amazingly clever to say, but if I do then don't you worry, I'll call you back. And—well, have a re ally good time and we'll see you Sunday. We're thinking of you, or at least I am.'

Raf didn't say that he loved her, he didn't need to, Carol could hear it in every word—not squishy-squidgy emotionally blackmailing pink fluffy love but the real thing—love that was warm and allowing and supportive, and wanted her to have what she wanted for herself, even if it was the chance to meet an old flame, even if that meant losing her. The
bastard, she sighed, how could Raf be such a good man without even trying?

Carol felt a fist reach in between her ribs and squeeze her heart. Raf was too nice, too kind, and too good to be treated like this. It took a big man to sit back and leave her free to screw it all up; Carol tried to imagine how the hell she would feel if the situation was reversed—the pain and doubt and hurt seared like fire. But then again, perhaps Raf felt it was better to find out now rather than later. Or did Raf think he had already won, that Gareth was no contest or, worse still, that he had already lost?

He'd still be up, it wasn't that late. Carol tapped away at search and waited while the phone came up with her home number. Raf picked it up on the second burble as if he had been sitting waiting for her to call.

‘Hi,' Carol said, biting her lip. It seemed like a hundred years since she had left home and even longer still since she had spoken to him.

‘Hi,' Raf said. In contrast to the easy confidence on the voice mail he now sounded stilted, almost as if they were strangers being introduced at a party. Carol wouldn't have been at all surprised if the next thing he said was, ‘My
name is Raf—I'm an architect. How about you?' But he didn't, he was just quiet, which in some ways was a lot worse.

‘Well, I got here OK, the directions were great—spot on,' she said as lightly as she could manage. ‘And it's an amazing house; I think some bits are Elizabethan. You'd adore it.' Why did it all sound so forced?

‘Good, and how's it going?' he asked.

Carol could almost hear Raf feeling his way round the edges of the conversation, weighing up how much to pry, how much to ask—or was that just her paranoia kicking in? ‘Fine, good, I've met up with my old gang, which is great—they haven't changed. I'm not sure whether that's a relief or a worry,' she said, trying hard to laugh. She hesitated. Where should she go next with the conversation?

On the way down to the pub Carol had made a point of walking with Netty, Adie, Jan and Diana in some kind of strange show of solidarity—and to get Netty off her back. But as they walked Gareth kept trying to catch her eye, engage her in conversation and edge over towards her, trying to break the group up.

It was crazy. They were adults, for God's sake, so how come she didn't know how to
play this? Fiona had finally insisted on walking with Gareth, occasionally arm in arm, leaving Carol between the two groups, both of which were caught up with and between other members of the cast and crew. Carol felt the pull and push between them all like magnets, people being repelled and attracted like some sort of walking physics experiment.

‘Are you still there?' asked Raf.

‘Sorry,' said Carol, laughing nervously, ‘I think maybe the signal is a bit patchy here,' lying through her eye-teeth to cover the uncomfortable lull in the conversation.

‘So how are things going?'

So far Carol couldn't re ally call it. She took a deep breath, the kind a person takes before jumping into a swimming pool or over the side of a sinking ship and said, ‘Oh, not so bad. I think everyone who said they were coming has turned up. It's a bit weird how some people look just the same but older and then there are others I wouldn't have recognised in a million years.' Carol stopped speaking, the words drying in her throat; they both knew the things Raf was re ally talking about, the things that were lurking just below the surface of the conversation.

There was a tiny pause, the silence so intense, so very dense that you could almost see it, and before she could stop him Raf leaped right in.

‘And how about your Mr Right?' he asked softly. ‘How is he? Still as gorgeous as ever?'

Carol laughed again. It sounded utterly false but there was no way to claw it back now. ‘He's—he's…' she fumbled around, desperate for something to say, something acceptable, something neutral, and could find nothing.

Raf laughed too. ‘He's there, then?'

‘Yes.' It sounded as if she had dragged the word out from between clenched teeth.

‘Not changed at all?'

Carol looked in through the bar door and

as fate—the bitch—would have it, just at that very moment Gareth looked up and, lifting a hand, grinned at her. Waving her back inside. No, he hadn't changed at all, not in any of the ways that mattered. Carol's stomach fluttered and she heard the catch in her voice as she said, ‘Don't be so silly.' And then more hastily in case there was some chance that Raf might say something else. ‘Look, I'm sorry but I've got to go. We've all just got to the pub and everyone is desperate to swap stories and catch up before closing time and I have no idea what time they
lock the doors up at the hall. I just wanted to ring and tell you that I got here safe and sound and to check and to make sure that you and the boys are OK—as long as you are OK?' The words came out like machine-gun fire, so fast that even if Raf had wanted to say something there was no gap, no pause for him to get back in.

‘I'll ring you tomorrow,' Carol said. ‘This was just a quickie. I re ally do have to go now, sorry. Talk soon. Love you.' And despite everything she re ally truly did; Carol loved him with all of her heart except that maybe loving him was a mistake, maybe her heart was wrong, maybe he wasn't the one. Maybe it was Gareth after all. The thoughts burned like acid.

And how was it that she didn't know?

Raf barely had a chance to say any kind of farewell before Carol snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into her handbag. The relief was enormous, like slipping the pin back into a live hand grenade. Carol felt hot and sick; how was it that she felt so guilty for doing nothing? It would be so very much simpler if Raf was nasty or angry or made her feel like she was justified in looking elsewhere, but he didn't. How did he make her feel? She bit her
lip; he made her feel loved for the first time in her life, truly loved.

They had met when she was asked to quote for landscaping during the modernisation of a local leisure centre. ‘I hope you're good…' he said, unrolling the plans for her at their first meeting.

Carol remembered looking up at him to see if he was being rude, or rather, how rude he was being.

‘…because this is the ugliest bloody building in all Christendom,' he'd continued. ‘When they asked me for design ideas, most of the ones I came up with involved a crane, a wrecking ball and a length of chain.'