Midsummer Madness by Stella Whitelaw Read Free Book Online Page B

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 thinkBen 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