Midsummer Madness (4 page)

Joe had landed me with the job and I hardly put up a fight. It was a dirty trick and I felt licensed to kill.

I could sabotage the whole event, give a false image. It would not take much imagination, hire male strippers, serve hot dogs and lukewarm beer, give the press handouts with a sliding scale of accuracy. I could forgetfully call it a performance of
Twelfth Knight
and imply jousting at the court of Henry VIII.

Joe would be livid. But how could he blame me? I was only the prompt. Born to rectify other people’s lapses of memory, not my own.

It was a satisfying daydream for a short while. We were rehearsing Act 2, scene 4. The Duke was making heavy weather of his speech, in fact he was floundering on the shore, knee deep in mud. He needed rescuing.

‘If ever thou shalt love, in the sweet pangs of it remember me,’ I said, loud enough for Byron to hear. He managed most of the rest of the lines, hesitantly, sweating profusely and overemphasising his stance and gestures.

‘You’re not supposed to be staggering, faltering,’ Joe said.

‘I’m a faltering lover,’ said Byron defiantly. ‘She’s going to turn me down.’

‘It gives a very echo to the seat where love is enthroned,’ said Elinor with Viola’s words.

‘There you are,’ said Byron. ‘She turns me down.’ He could argue anything to tea time, and carry on till supper. He looked up into the tangle of ropes and wires.

‘That’s not turning you down,’ said Elinor. ‘It’s very positive. But she is assuming the role of a boy, remember? Dicey, even in those days.’

‘Can we have this ethical discussion some other time?’ said Joe returning to his laptop and desk lamp in the fourth row.’ Back to “If ever thou shalt love”.’

Byron groaned. ‘I hate that speech.’

‘Learn to like it,’ said Joe. ‘Learn to say it with feeling. Say it over and over again. Make it part of your life. That’s your remit for today.’

The Press Reception was a week away. I had sent out the invitations. I wrote them by hand in copper-plate Shakespearean handwriting, sloping and twirling, on fake manuscript paper I found going cheap in a card shop. Some of the edges were curled which gave them an air of antiquity.

Joe never asked to see what I had written or whether the arrangements were in place. So far there was no food, no drink and no entertainment. It was going to be a very short party. Say, fifteen minutes at the most.

The fact was I was too tired to be bothered. Not the right attitude. I should be bubbling with enthusiasm, ‘brisk and giddy-paced’ as Shakespeare wrote so eloquently for the same scene. Giddy-paced was not my style or size. Far too energetic. I needed folic acid and calcium.

Bill Naughton strolled over. He had a breathing space, liked breathing down my neck. Lighting were trying to fix something in the flies above.

‘How’s my favourite prompt?’ he asked, peering at the page. My neck warmed up. ‘Found your place?’

‘Want my job?’ I said, vaguely Bette Davis. I’d only caught her on afternoon movies, long before my time. ‘Any nearer and you can have it.’

‘Just making sure you are not asleep,’ he chuckled.

‘Quiet in the wings.’

Joe’s voice whipped over. He must have hearing sharper than a dolphin.

They can hear things miles away. And he was just as slippery. But
could he do backflips?

It was a long scene. Twice I had to stretch my legs during moments of theatrical harassment. Prompt was not supposed to move. It was embarrassing but I could get stuck in one position. Then I waddled, like a duckling out of Honk!

‘Are you leaving us, Prompt?’ Joe asked, swinging his voice round towards my corner. ‘I don’t blame you. They are making a pig’s dinner of this play. Maybe we could turn it into a musical and get a band to come in. Let the noise drown the words. Elinor, go and get a good night’s sleep. You need it. Fran, stop flaunting the boobs. You’re a lady in waiting, not a lap dancer. Byron, for the last time, learn those words. And Mr Naughton, a word about those bloody slow changes. A tortoise on the run would have moved faster.’

I shrank back into my poncho. I’d lost my brittle shell, felt soft and exposed. My script fell open at a different page. One of the mischievous theatre ghosts on the prowl. Act 2, scene 3: ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’

Cakes and ale! Bingo. Hundreds and hundreds of deliciously scrummy cakes (keep Elinor away from them). Casks of ale? Where do I get authentic casks? What else did they eat in those days? Venison and stuffed swans? I drew a line at stuffed swans, poor things with such long necks. Did M&S sell venison? Venison sausages? Sweetmeats. What are sweetmeats? Sweets or meat? This was suddenly getting interesting. The press reception had potential.

There’s nothing I like more than research on Google at the library. Shakespearean food and drink. Tell me more, oh sweet screen, thou flickering cursor.

I was on my way out when Mr Mighty Joe Harrison blocked my path. He was wrapped up in a big scarf, not liking our English wet and cold. And winter was coming. It was nipping the air with splinters of ice.

‘Have you the right to look so happy?’ he asked.

‘I am happy,’ I said. And I was. ‘I love everybody but unfortunately that’s not necessarily including you. That I would have to work on. Call it overtime.’

‘How’s the press reception?’ It was the first time he’d mentioned

‘You’ll be amazed,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be spectacular, fantastic, terrific.’

Joe looked worried. ‘I don’t like the sound of spectacular and fantastic. Professional, I hope?’

‘Come along and find out. If there’s room for you. Everyone is coming. Half of London has accepted. Stalls, Dress Circle, Upper Circle, packed.’

‘Well done.’ He sounded suspicious. He didn’t trust me. I didn’t trust me. ‘Don’t forget, I shall want to say something about the production.’

‘I’ll find you a slot,’ I said. ‘Before the fireworks or after the ice skating? Maybe before everyone goes out or passes out.’

‘Is it going to be that kind of press reception? A medieval fountain of alcohol? No fireworks, please, unless you’ve invited the London Fire Brigade.’

‘It’s going to be wonderful,’ I said dreamily, very Charlize Theron, without the flawless skin and model figure. ‘Trust me.’

‘I don’t.’

I toured a people-packed, teeming M&S store in the break. The shelves were stacked with wonderful party food. I could eat everything. Not exactly Shakespearean but I could tweak it here and there. Casks of ale were no problem. The local brewery was willing to deliver. I found a delicatessen that would make venison sausages and honey cakes. Thirty-four plays and 154 sonnets recorded but what did Shakespeare eat? No burger bars around then but lots of street stalls selling piping hot food. Grazing is nothing new. Medieval homes didn’t have cookers or microwaves and not everyone lived in a castle with a cow-sized spit.

Shakespeare lived fifty-two years, dying on his birthday, 23 April. No mean feat to die on your birthday; think of the party. He began life with a bread and dripping job, working in his father’s wool and glove shop in Henley Street, Stratford. What was his mind thinking as he sold gloves to the ladies and rich merchants of the day? Daydreaming? Writing plays? He loved strolling players, followed them around. Good on you, William, the groupie. Go soak up the vibes.

But what did they eat or drink? I needed more information or
this press reception was going to be dull and boring. That night I stayed up, reading the Bard. Cakes and ale, good wine, a pot of ale. Could it be served in pots? I didn’t fancy roasted egg or roasted wild boar. Forget them, nothing roasted.

Beef was mentioned frequently. Then, in
Henry IV
, I hit the culinary jackpot. Cheese and garlic, pigeons, short-legged hens, a joint of mutton and pretty little kickshaws. I had no idea what a kickshaw was but I had time to find out.
Richard III
mentioned strawberries, plenty of those still around and
Romeo and Juliet
came up trumps with quinces and dates. My party menu was going to be awesome.

I was walking through Covent Garden the next day when I heard some strolling players playing music. A group of out-of-work actors, desperate for food, drink, drugs, anything. They had a lute and flute and several sorts of other medieval instruments and were playing vaguely madrigal-type music with a bit of Queen thrown in. I booked them on the spot. They had to wear
Shakespearian-type
gear, be on time, and I would pay them cash, I said.

They liked the sound of cash. And the music wasn’t that bad. Could be catchy in a couple of centuries.

‘Now I’m depending on you,’ I said. ‘If you let me down, then your name will be more than mud, it will be foul-smelling sludge. If you haven’t the costumes, then we can fit you up out of Wardrobe.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mike, the leader. ‘We’ll be there in green and yellow stockings and caps. We can borrow the gear. It’ll be cool.’

The work was beginning to get to me. I wasn’t built for this kind of hassle. I had actually lost a couple of pounds in the last week. My flat was heavily into squalor. Instead of catching up on sleep at night, I was writing and checking lists, phoning people who were never in. Could I call this expenses?

It didn’t help that when I walked home that evening, I was followed by a stalker. I knew someone was a few paces behind me. Such a creepy feeling. I was sick with fear. My hand was on my mobile but how could it help me? I’d be flat on the pavement, minus bag, before my fingers even remembered where 999 was.

I’d worked in London for several years, various theatres, never
been frightened before. But now I was. It was the most awful feeling, being followed, being stalked. I started crossing the street, then re-crossing, keeping a distance. They say keep a distance. Try to relax, let the tension go out of your shoulders. Strike with the palm, not a clenched fist. The fist hurts you more. I shrank into my own skin, hoping someone would rescue me first. I couldn’t even aim a stamp on an envelope. Robin Hood? Wrong county. Wrong century. I quickened my steps.

‘Sophie? Slow down. I’m not stalking you. Don’t be afraid. I live in this street too now. I’ve taken on the tenancy of the first-floor flat in the same house. It may not be the most salubrious area but it suits me.’

It was Joe Harrison, puffing. He was standing behind me, laden with flight bags and cases. A carton of milk was balanced on top. I rescued it, the words sinking in. I didn’t want a neighbour, especially this particular neighbour.

‘The first-floor flat?’ I said in a deadpan voice. My own voice. ‘It’s been empty for ages.’

‘I know. Overpriced but I can afford it, and it’s only for the run of the show. Well furnished. All white and minimalist. Do you want to see it?’

‘No,’ I said, following him inside like a zombie. The first floor was no climb at all. Joe was bouncing his bags and cases up the stairs. I didn’t offer to help. I’d helped him once before and look what good it had done me.

He pushed open the front door of his flat. It had a hall, not straight into the living room like mine. I followed him through to the kitchen and dumped the milk. It was all stainless steel and white tiles. Not a spilt Rice Crispie in sight.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’ll suit me very well.’

I could see the living room, big bay windows and long draped ivory curtains, two three-seater sofas and thick rugs on the polished floor. Call mine an aerial rabbit hutch. Still, I did have my own birds.

‘Lovely,’ I said, backing out.

‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea? Some sort of house-warming drink?’ he shouted from the bedroom. No doubt it was also palatial
and well furnished. ‘I think there’s some champagne in one of these bags.’

‘Sorry,’ I trilled merrily. ‘Busy night. Big party. All my mates. Got to wash my hair first.’

The big party was watching any mates who’d been lucky enough to get bit parts on TV soaps and were hurt if you didn’t spot them. Blink and you missed their line. Busy night was checking more replies. I washed my hair, that much was true. Protein for strength, it said on the bottle label in unreadable tiny print.

I sat in front of the telly towelling dry my strong hair before the drips ran down inside my collar. I was celebrating with a raspberry yogurt. Champagne wasn’t that good for you. Wrinkled the skin round the eyes or something.

I was unable to hear what was going on down on the first floor so if Fran joined Joe for the celebratory glass of champagne, I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t spend my life counting his visitors.

My bed was a shambles. I barely had time to tidy anywhere before I left every morning. I threw over the rose-patterned duvet and gave it the odd smoothing pat. Housework done.

There hadn’t been time for my usual evening call but my mother was still up, making her night-time cocoa. She answered the phone straight away.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.

‘Of course, right as rain. You sound tired.’

‘I am. This press reception is a lot of extra work. These things don’t just happen. There’s so much to think about.’

‘I hope he’s going to pay you.’

‘Yes, he said he would. But people forget, don’t they, when it’s all over?’

‘Then don’t let him forget. Type out an invoice and present it to him in the middle of the reception when everything is going well. But keep a copy in case he loses it. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

I groaned. ‘No guarantee of that. It could be a disaster. There’s so much to arrange. My corn is hurting and that means a disaster, doesn’t it?’

‘No, it means your shoes are too tight or it’s going to rain.’

‘That, too. How’s everything your end?’

‘He’s fine. Sound asleep. Had a busy day.’

‘I miss him.’

‘Do you? Come home a bit more often then. You know where we live. Come before he forgets who you are.’

My mother could be snappy. She’d had years of practise. My sense of inadequacy homed in like radar.

It was the day of the press reception. The rehearsal had been a minefield, erratic fortissimo explosions. Joe eventually sent everyone home so that the stage could be cleared, swept and set up with the food and drink tables in front of scenery.

‘I want everyone back by a quarter to six. Not a minute later. Glad rags and best bib,’ he added. ‘No punk gear.’

The brewery was setting up casks of ale on wooden trestle supports. It was also providing a mountain of tankards as they didn’t have pots. No problem with the wine though, would anyone fancy elderberry or dandelion? Pretty potent, I was assured, blow your head stuff. My head already felt blown.

‘And where is the music going?’ Joe asked.

I had not heard from the strolling players and had no idea if they were actually going to turn up. I sent up a prayer, via Shakespeare.

‘How about in the Royal Box, down right? There’s plenty of room for them, a power point and no one will trip over cables and fuse the entire theatre.’

‘I’ll leave it to you.’

I was worried, in a red mist of panic. But food was arriving from the various shops and stores and it began to look good. I’d borrowed some huge platters from props and garlanded them with foliage stolen from a local church yard. I laid out the quinces and strawberries.

The cheese and garlic was chopped up in a big bowl for scooping up with bread. They used bread before they had plates but I wasn’t
providing a stew. There were heaps of short hen’s legs and sliced mutton. More bread for scooping. Fresh mustard mixed in medieval pots. Millie, Elinor’s dresser, helped mix the mustard till her eyes streamed. They were pretty brown eyes.

Joe was strolling around, hands behind his back, peering at the food like a health inspector.

‘And what’s this?’ he asked, stopping in front of three long golden crusted rolls. ‘Are they baguettes?’

‘Beef in pastry,’ I said. ‘They loved beef in those days and they adored pastry. So I got a butcher to cook up a batch. It’s around on menus now, but not many people know how old this recipe is. Needs slicing. Eat with your fingers.’

‘Quinces?’ He helped himself to a strawberry.

‘They ate quinces.’

‘So, but do we?’

‘Does it matter? Does party food have to be boring? Be thankful I didn’t roast a wild boar.’

Kickshaws I had decided were sweets, or sweetmeats, exotic delicacies said the dictionary, so I had bought a huge selection of small one-bite cakes and Belgian chocolates from M&S. A chocolate fountain was on its way for dipping. The Press would be staggering home, stomachs overloaded, searching for adjectives and the Rennies.

‘Ah, sausages,’ Joe said with male satisfaction.

‘Venison sausages,’ I said. ‘I had them specially made. Very expensive and taste good. No limit to cost, you said.’

Joe Harrison stopped and looked at me. A humorous smile showed for two seconds. Or maybe I perceived it subconsciously. ‘You really have been to a lot of trouble, Sophie. Thank you. It’s going to be splendid. Different, but splendid.’

I shrivelled back into my shell. He hadn’t told me to go home and be back by six. Perhaps I wasn’t invited. Bill Naughton was still around, putting up banners and flags from the court of Orsino.

‘Are you now the current favourite?’ he asked, dragging over a set of heraldic emblems. He sounded peeved. Perhaps he was tired, or jealous.

‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘He’ll have forgotten my name by the end of
the reception. I shall be hey-you, whats-yer-name, Madam Prompt again.’

‘Where’s the sandwiches and sausage rolls?’

‘There aren’t any. It’s all genuine Shakespearean food.’ What else did I have to do? My list was lost somewhere between here and Illyria.

‘Didn’t know food would keep that long.’

It was past five before I crept into the wings to make myself some tea. The strolling players had arrived clad in outrageous outfits in bright yellows and orange, but they were happy enough setting up their gear. It might be medieval but it was going to be amplified.

I sank down on to a stool not knowing if I was going to stay. Once it started I would be way back on the fringe, checking invites on the door, then dissolving into the night traffic and forgotten. I would go home. They’d all be having a good time (the elderberry was potent, I’d tasted it) and showing the Press that this was one helluva good show. Some of the striking costumes were on display. They would love the elaborate popinjay costume designed for Sir Andrew Aguecheek, the conceited and imbecilic friend of Sir Toby.

‘Sophie,’ it was Joe, again. He sounded urgent. ‘Why aren’t you ready? It’s going to start very soon.’

‘What do you mean? It is ready.’

He looked at me in disbelief. I was wearing black trainer bottoms and a shrunken Skittles Are Tops grey sweat shirt. My hair was tied back with an elastic band, the red ones that postmen drop in the street.

‘Is this your idea of party gear?’

‘No, work gear,’ I said, numbness creeping sideways. ‘This isn’t my show. I didn’t know if I was invited.’

Joe pulled me up off the stool and began to march me towards the basement of the theatre. His grip on my arm was tightened in case I was going to scarper. We went down the rickety stairs and along the dimly lit corridor that lead to Wardrobe and Costume storage. It was a cavern of racks of packed clothes, many in polythene bags or swathed in muslin. I’d been there many times, helping Hilda, the wardrobe mistress, to find something or change something. It was another of my Sophie do this, Sophie do that,
areas. I can thread a needle.

‘We’re going to find you something to wear. Something feminine. Take that clobber off,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not taking anything off. I’m all right as I am.’

‘Do as you are told,’ he growled, flicking along the rails. ‘Or I’ll rip it off.’

There was a faded screen about two feet wide in the corner. It would hardly screen Kate Moss standing sideways. Joe was roaming the racks, pulling out frothy dresses and long skirts and pushing them back. He was trawling the modern section. I was wearing clean underwear but they were for paramedics’ eyes only.

‘What size are you?’ he said.

‘Dunno. I always buy One Size clothes.’

‘No wonder you always look like a bundle of washing. One size is admitting defeat. Try this on.’ He had an eye for harmony of colour but not this time.

I heard a grunt of approval. Ared dress was flung over the top of the screen. It was a mass of shimmering fringes. It would fold away into a jiffy bag.

‘It’s not
Twelfth Night
,’ I objected.

‘I didn’t say everyone has to wear Elizabethan period. Fran will be in a boob tube. Elinor will be entirely in black. Jessica will come Italian. Put that on and let’s see what you look like. And be quick about it. They will be queuing at the door soon. The Press are always early for drinks.’

It was a 1920’s flapper dress in geranium red silk, fringes all the way down to the knee. The neckline was scooped out but I had good shoulders to show, and my arms were equal to exposure. But this red, with my hair?

I twirled round. ‘I look like a lampshade,’ I cried. ‘Don’t turn me on.’

‘Quit the Goldie Hawn. Try the shoes.’

They didn’t quite fit but as they were high-heeled, cross-barred sandals, I could tighten the straps enough to keep them in place. Joe was standing behind me, grinning. He pulled off the elastic band and flung it into a bin.

‘And do something with your hair. You’re the first company
person they’ll see so you must make a good impression.’

I took off the sandals and ran back upstairs to find an empty dressing room. I brushed out my mass of hair and pinned it up with anything handy. A couple of combs, some pins and a peg clip. Hit and miss but it looked fashionable in a weird and wild, abandoned way. Then I flicked on some blusher, outlined my eyes with black khol and my lips with red. Lashings of mascara. I’d probably catch some ghastly eye disease, using a borrowed mascara.

The result was surprising. No one would recognize me at fifty yards. The prompt had transformed into a butterfly. A shimmering red one, with wings.

‘Good evening,’ I said, standing in the foyer of the theatre as if I was the Front of House manager. ‘May I see your invitation.’ I wasn’t having gatecrashers. ‘Please go through the theatre. Food and drink on stage. Enjoy yourself.’

The strolling players were in full swing. I vaguely recognized a few tunes but they were doing their own thing. The beat was not medieval. It was rock and roll. ‘I don’t need an invitation,’ said Fran, sweeping by. She was in a tight silver lamé dress, obviously nothing on underneath. It had tiny shoulder straps twinkling with fake jewels. She’d be frozen going home. ‘I’m in the cast. I’m understudy to the lead, Elinor Dawn.’

‘I know that, Fran,’ I said. ‘I’m checking the Press, not the cast.’

She looked at me, then gasped. I suppose it was a shock. Then her eyes narrowed. She was wearing her dead doll Barbie face so the gasp nearly split it.

‘Sophie? What are you doing dressed up like that? You look a fright.’

‘Mr Harrison wanted a fright on the door so that the Press didn’t run the wrong way. Once past me, they’ll never come out. Good for publicity.’

‘Well, I don’t know where you got that dress. It’s seen better days.’ She smoothed her lamé. ‘Mine is Jens Laugesen. Very
avante-garde
.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Mine is vintage 1920, I believe. One of those precious costumes only lent out to special people. Before
avante-garde 
was invented.’

She flounced by with a huff and a puff, sashayed into the auditorium, her buttocks clearly defined. She didn’t look back, already searching the freeloading critics for one who might be persuaded to write at length about her blossoming career.

There were quite a few journalists who turned up without an invitation, lost in the post etcetera. I let them in. They had a job to do. There was something for everyone to write about. I recognized several television executives. It would be good if Joe got a few sofa interviews before the opening of the show. That deep
English-American
accent would wow anyone at breakfast time. And he’d have plenty to say.

Elinor arrived, swathed in black chiffon. ‘I wore that red in
The Boy-Friend
when I played Dulcie,’ she said, nodding. ‘It suits you perfectly.’

‘Fabulous,’ said Byron with a wink, escorting Elinor in. ‘You clean up good, girl. Carbolic soap?’

‘How about taking some time off,’ said Joe from the doorway. ‘Nearly everyone’s here now. I want you to network, circulate, talk.’

I froze. ‘I don’t do network,’ I stumbled. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

‘Talk about the play. You know more about it than anyone else here.’

He started to lead me into the theatre. It was a swinging crowd. They were knocking back the ale and the food and the noise level was decibels high.

‘I could tell them that the first performance of
Twelfth Night
was in the courtyard of Wilton House for the Earl of Pembroke.’

‘I thought it was
As You Like It
,’ he said, his eyes narrowing, ‘2 February 1602, first performance.’

‘The house is still owned by the descendents of the man who built it,’ I went on. ‘A performance of
Twelfth Night
at a feast was mentioned in an Elizabethan Diary written by John Manningham, a barrister. But your date is right.’

‘It all makes copy,’ said Joe, pushing me towards the drinks area. ‘Have a drink, Sophie. Try the elderberry. It’ll loosen you up.’

‘Shakespeare died after a drinking spree with his mates. I think
Ben Johnson was one of them. He got a fever and died,’ I said with determination. I was a mass of nerves now, poise fast shredding despite the gorgeous dress.

‘I don’t want to know about his death,’ said Joe. ‘He died on his birthday and that’s bad enough. We want to know about his life. Go circulate and talk.’

Call the wine unusual. It tasted like water with a dash of some fragrant wildflower from a hedge. And that something was potent. It logged straight to my head. Brother, it was strong. Maybe I should eat. But the food was disappearing as if a flock of vultures had descended from the roof of Canary Wharf. I found half a strawberry and some flakes of pastry. Any minute now I’d be eating the church foliage.

It was like being on stage, all these people milling round me and talking. The female journalists wore uniform black mini dresses or black trouser suits with white silk blouses. Most of the men wore suits but had discarded the tie. Open-neck shirts were the order. Some of the older men had grey ponytails.

Fran was draped suffocatingly round a young reporter who was making notes of everything she said. Elinor had her own circle of admirers, mostly aging stage-door Johnnies but she was loving it. There was a silver-haired television mogul who seemed to be spellbound.

I looked around for Bill but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably off down the pub for a proper pint and some chips. Receptions were not his style.

Joe made his few words dynamic and brief, plenty of sound bites. He said what was necessary and not an extra word. The Press appreciated not having to listen to loads of ethnic waffle.

I was a mass of quivering nerves by now. Stage fright, yet I wasn’t on stage. Yet, I felt people were looking at me, waiting for me to say something and I didn’t know my lines. I felt my muscles becoming rigid. It was an old nightmare.

The Royale Theatre began to expand, growing in size until it became huge. It was blowing me away. I was dwindling in stature, shrinking, but my blood was pumping like mad. My head was spinning. It was that red mist clouding my eyes again.

‘Joe,’ I said but he didn’t hear me. He was talking to some blonde, svelte female journalist from one of the Sundays. She was gazing at him with calculated interest. If he relaxed too much, she’d bite his arm off.

‘Did you say Wilton House?’ someone asked me.

I nodded. ‘In the courtyard.’ It came out as a croak. I wanted to disappear but I was chained to the stage by the fringe of my dress.