A Sudden Engagement and The Sicilian’s Surprise Wife(2)

No doubt the rest of the cast would be in the pub now discussing the débâcle of the latest performance; even if they decided to go on she knew she could not. Playing a punk teenager, disenchanted with life, delivering lines in heavily interspersed with four-letter words and possessing very little other merit, had lost its appeal. Putting to use the secretarial skills her parents had insisted she learn would almost be a relief, and there would be other parts, she promised herself as the town centre was left behind and they began to drive from the more exclusive suburbs.

Winton was a small seaside town, close enough to Bournemouth to consider itself ‘select’ but yet somehow lacking the flair and panache which would have made it so. It was a town of retired schoolteachers and ex-soldiers, and surely the worst possible place on earth to launch a play dealing with the raw reality of life in Toxteth and the effect of environment on upbringing, which was the theme of the play, and one which Kirsty thought was very worthwhile, but somehow Bernard Wray’s interpretation of it lacked impact. Kirsty wasn’t too happy with his reliance on violence both in language and in actions to get across his message, but then she hadn’t written the play and he had, and the others seemed quite happy. She was too romantic, Kirsty acknowledged as the taxi took the coast road. All through her schooldays she had dreamed of the great Shakespearean roles, the Restoration comedies, the wit and laughter that lingered in these and the Noël Coward plays like the sharp, clean scent of lavender. Who amongst the modern playwrights could rival those giants?

Lost in her thoughts, Kirsty suddenly realised that her taxi was turning into the approach to the hotel.

Built in the full flush of Edwardian splendour, it had a shrub-lined drive, and the early September dusk hid from her the lawned gardens and golf course which the hotel boasted. A uniformed commissionnaire opened the taxi door for her, and suddenly throwing herself into her new role, Kirsty tipped the driver recklessly, bestowing on him a smile that transformed her gamin features and made him stare at her in stunned appreciation.

The hotel foyer was thickly carpeted; several business-suited men wandered about, mingling with the older guests who were obviously hotel residents. Kirsty gave her name to the smiling receptionist, who indicated the way to the dining room and its intimate bar, where several couples were already enjoying pre-dinner drinks. The Edwardian ambience of the hotel was underlined by the bar and dining room, referred to by the receptionist as the ‘Palm Court Suite’.

Clever lighting emphasised the skilled and effective trompe l’æuil work on the walls and ceiling—if she hadn’t known better Kirsty could almost have been persuaded that beyond the delicate trelliswork on the walls actually lay that perfect blue sea and matching sky, so persuasive was the illusion of a Mediterranean shore depicted on the walls. The theme was carried through with attractive white ‘terrace-style’ furniture, and as she ordered a pre-dinner cocktail from the mouthwateringly tempting selection Kirsty started to study her fellow diners.

Studying human nature was a fascinating pursuit, and as always the actress in her was searching eagerly for mannerisms and expressions to add to her repertoire.

When her cocktail arrived it tasted delicious, worth every penny of the exorbitant price she had seen listed beside it; a pale banana-yellow frothy delight that reminded her of a grown-up version of her favourite milk shakes. It was also extremely potent, and by the time the head waiter appeared discreetly at her side to tell her that her table was ready Kirsty was beginning to feel distinctly lightheaded.

She had been skipping lunches recently; a reminder not to drink when she was doing so, she told herself as she studied her menu avidly.

Selfconsciousness had never been one of her faults; no one aspiring to be a successful actress could be, and consequently she felt no embarrassment at dining alone, oblivious to the appreciative looks she was getting from the male occupants of other tables as she pored over her menu, totally absorbed in the difficult task of making the right choice.

At last she decided on a seafood platter followed by tournedos Rossini, always one of her favourites. Her waiter’s smiling approval of her choice amused her, and she allowed herself to be persuaded into glancing over the wine list and selecting a modest half bottle of a sharp white Burgundy, shaking her head over the red he suggested, explaining that she found it too rich.

‘No… honestly, I couldn’t manage another mouthful,’ Kirsty pronounced with regret, waving aside the proffered second helping of Californian strawberries.

Once they realised that she was on her own, the waiters had vied with one another to serve her, and she had entered into the rivalry in a lighthearted way. Despite their evening suits and formal expressions, most of them were only boys, similar in age and outlook to her own friends, and Kirsty had never been tonguetied or embarrassed in the presence of the opposite sex. Curiously enough, despite this, neither had she ever fully experienced passion or desire. Until she left home for drama school her only boy-friend had been the son of close friends of her parents; a traditional boy-and-girl relationship, more that of brother and sister than anything else, although they had exchanged the usual shy kisses and fumbling embraces. Since then Kirsty had had plenty of dates with her fellow drama students and their friends, but there had been no one to make her heart beat faster, or lose her head over.

She wanted to make a success of her career before she even thought about falling in love, she had decided long ago, and once she did fall in love it would be with someone who would be as much a friend as a lover.

Accepting the waiter’s suggestion that she drink her coffee in the lounge, Kirsty found herself a seat by the door that led on to the foyer. That way she could observe everything going on around her and yet still remain relatively tucked away herself. Her depression seemed to have lifted, and her normal ebullience restored. Even so, some things still rankled. Like Drew Chalmers’ criticisms of her, for instance; criticisms which had blighted her career just as she was taking her first faltering steps. He must have known how inexperienced she was; after all, her small part hardly had the power to make or break the play, and yet he had attacked her with a savagery that still felt unhealed wounds. Her pride and self-worth were badly dented, and worse still, she had been forced to ask herself if she was actually going to be able to make it. Of course other members of the cast had come in for criticism too, but none quite so much as her, she was convinced of it. Perhaps he simply didn’t like my face, she thought angrily before dismissing the thought as unlikely; under all the stage make-up she had been wearing he wouldn’t have been able to see much of the real her, and she had also been wearing a wig. Common sense told her that a highly acclaimed critic would hardly denounce a member of the acting profession simply because he took an immediate dislike to their physical appearance.

Deep down in her heart of hearts Kirsty knew that she had been miscast, but it hurt to admit that there could be roles for which she lacked the experience, so she concentrated on Drew Chalmers’ malicious unfairness in picking specifically on her.

The receptionists changed shifts. The new girl, an attractive blonde, was soon busy dealing with a sudden influx of people, when Kirsty saw a tall, dark-haired man cross the foyer and stand easily at the back of the small crowd.

Whether it was the impatient glance he gave the expensive gold watch strapped to a sinewy wrist, or the air of dark authority with which he surveyed his surroundings, Kirsty didn’t know, but, trained to recognise such things, she couldn’t mistake the alacrity with which the receptionist dealt with the small queue in order to assist him, turning to him with an appreciative smile and a warm ‘Good evening.’

For all that he was casually dressed in narrow dark pants and an obviously expensive cashmere sweater in a warm mulberry shade which enhanced a tan Kirsty suspected had never come from any sunbed, when he spoke it was with a crispness that spoke more of the boardroom than a hotel foyer.

‘Drew Chalmers,’ Kirsty heard him say in stunned disbelief. ‘I’m in Room 107.’

Drew Chalmers here! It was almost as though she had conjured him up out of her thoughts. She studied him covertly. This was Drew Chalmers, the man who had ruined her career? She had visualised him as much older than his apparent thirty years; much less obviously male as well. He didn’t look a bit as she had imagined him. She had pictured someone smaller, dapper almost, not this six foot odd of lean masculinity with a shock of thick dark hair and a way of moving that reminded her of a lazy cat. Her coffee completely forgotten, she sat transfixed, listening unashamedly as he explained that he was expecting a friend to arrive.

‘I have to go out for several minutes,’ Kirsty heard him explain. ‘But if Miss Travers arrives, please give her my key and ask her to let herself into my suite. Oh, and have the dining room send up a bottle of champagne, will you, we’ll order dinner later.’

Miss Travers! That could only be Beverley Travers, the newly divorced wife of an American oil millionaire, and according to the gossip columns Drew Chalmers’ constant companion.

When she had first heard him announce himself Kirsty had been curious to know what on earth he could be doing in this remote seaside town. Her upper lip curled faintly disdainfully. Now she knew. How very trite and predictable! If she ever contemplated having an affair with one anyone she would expect him to show far more originally than simply to book them into a quiet country hotel, no matter how luxurious. She spent a few minutes daydreaming about a country cottage tucked away from the rest of the world and the sort of lover she was rather ashamed of fantasising over. Surely she had gone beyond the stage of dreaming of that sort of encounter? Of being swept off her feet and made love to with a thoroughness that would sweep aside all the barriers of modesty and caution instilled into her by her nature and upbringing.