Staging Death

Staging Death Read Free Page B

Book: Staging Death Read Free
Author: Judith Cutler
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my agent. Would I take it on? What do you think, Vena?’
    Wasn’t it RSC policy always to turn to the understudy when a principal fell ill? I pulled a face. What I wanted to do was jump up and down and tell him not to be so greedy when other people had egos that needed massaging. For Toby was only considering it because he was an actor and needed to be needed. ‘Depends how good your memory is, darling.’ I wasn’t quite being catty – the older one got, after all, the more one preferred well-paid cameos.
    ‘I did it last year at the National. Should still be in here somewhere,’ he added, tapping his head.
    ‘Poor Meredith really needs a break likethat, you know.’ I knew just how he’d feel. I’d longed for years for leading ladies to sprain their ankles – just a little sprain, nothing that would incapacitate them for more than a few weeks. What did the Bible say? To them that hath shall be given? Toby had everything, and could have lived off his film royalties for a century, provided he didn’t have to shell out for another divorce.
    He wasn’t such a fool that he didn’t register my lack of enthusiasm. ‘Merry doesn’t emanate evil, just violence,’ he snapped.
    Before I could raise the prospect of Cleopatra to his (or anyone else’s) Antony, my mobile phone told me I was being texted. Caddie Minton? I twitched in anticipation, but good manners forbade me to check.
    ‘Go on, take it,’ he said, wandering back into the house.
    I did. No, alas, it wasn’t Caddie. But at least it was some work. Greg had an urgent job for me. Today.
    In Toby’s continued absence there wasn’t any reason not to phone Greg.
    ‘Knottsall Lodge,’ he said, by way of a greeting. ‘Mr and Mrs Westfield’s place. They’re in the Bahamas, remember. A Mr Brosnic wants to view today.’
    ‘And have you checked his credentials?’
    ‘For God’s sake, Vena.’
    ‘No, for Suzy Lamplugh’s sake. Have you seen him? Does he check out?’ After all, it wasn’t Greg who was about to be closeted in a remote manor house with an unknown male.
    ‘There’s a Mrs B with him. Her earrings have got pearls the size of pigeons’ eggs in them. The hire car’s a Bentley. He’s talking about buying a Premier League soccer club. OK? Or do you need his blood group and DNA profile too?’
    ‘You’ve got a UK address and phone number?’
    He made a slurping noise, family shorthand meaning I wasn’t to teach my grandmother how to suck eggs. ‘Hell, Vee, do you reelly need to ask?’ When he was angry, his Blackheath accent leapt to the fore.
    ‘Yes, reelly ,’ I threw back at him. Maybe I had gone too far. ‘OK. So long as Mrs B’s with him. What time?’
    ‘Three.’
    That didn’t give me long to wrap up here with Toby and to nip into Stratford to pick up the keys. But you didn’t tell a man buying a football club that he must wait another half-hour.
    There was still no sign of Toby when I scurried back into the kitchen. Greta raised her nose a fraction – he was upstairs. I went to the bottom of the stairs and called him – not quite a yell, but a distinct projection of the voice.
    Towelling his hair, which was still so thick itwould have made Greg spit, he put his head over the banister, which fortunately obscured what his bathrobe, from this angle, did not. He smiled, and made the tiniest movement of his head. As if on cue, a single dark-blonde lock fell forward on to his forehead.
    I told myself, just as I’d told myself every time he’d made the offer before, that I didn’t do adultery. Not even with Toby.
    As if I hadn’t registered his invitation, I said, ‘I’ve just had a message – the chance of a job.’
    ‘The chance of a job?’ he repeated, with a swift smile. He clearly thought I had an audition. ‘Good for you, darling! Be off with you – this instant.’
    ‘But the curtains—’
    ‘A pampered Allyn shall phone you this very evening. But as for now…’ His eyes narrowed. He emanated evil.

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