The Memory of Blood by Christopher Fowler Read Free Book Online Page A

common enemy.’ Pryce glared in the direction of a smarmy-looking city type with slicked reddish hair and a supercilious smirk. ‘Gregory Baine. The producer.’
    ‘I’ll never remember who everyone is,’ said Gail.
    ‘It doesn’t matter—you’ll soon get to know them, trust me.’
    ‘What’s the problem with him?’
    ‘Baine stopped our salaries and put us on a profit-share, says it’s better for us that way. He and Robert know they’ll be able to fiddle the books and prove the show hasn’t made enough money to pay us scale. We should never have signed our contracts, but I guess we were all desperate to work. What about you?’
    ‘I’m really an intern. This is my first professional job. I haven’t worked in a West End production before. My father thought it would be a good way of keeping me out of the papers for a while.’
    ‘Well, don’t expect to be recompensed for your labours.’
    ‘I guess Robert Kramer has plenty of money,’ said Gail, looking around. ‘This is a pretty cool penthouse.’
    ‘He bought the New Strand Theatre outright in order to indulge his hobby. Owners don’t use their own cash for shows anymore.’
    Gail didn’t have much of an attention span, and Pryce was already beginning to bore her. ‘What else have you written?’
    ‘This is my first full-length play. I took it to Robert because I was sure he’d buy it. The subject matter suits him down to the ground.’
    ‘It’s about betrayal, seduction and murder.’
    ‘Exactly.’ He threw her a meaningful look, then turned away.
    ‘Well, I was looking forward to working here,’ said Gail, annoyed with Ray Pryce for painting such a gloomy picture of her future. ‘I’m going to get myself a drink.’
    Glad to be away from the archetypically angry playwright, Gail allowed her champagne to be topped up and took small sips from the glass as she watched the room. Robert Kramer had issued his guests a warning that no photographs were to be taken at the party. The door security had taken their mobile phones away, as if they couldn’t be trusted to follow instructions.
    Mona Williams had been ignored by the waiter and was forced to head for the bar, where she poured herself a large glass of appallingly bitter red wine. Her companion seemed to have disappeared, so she stood admiring a framed set of Victorian music hall posters: Marie Lloyd in her tortuous corset and feathered hat; Little Titch leaning forward on his elongated boots; Vesta Tilley, George Robey and Harry Champion photographed against ambrosian backdrops. The apartment was a shrine to the world of artifice.
    Mona wondered how Kramer’s new wife coped with it all. The woman clearly had no interest in the theatre. She seemed a class above him. It was hard to imagine why she should have married such a man, if it wasn’t for his money. He was physically unattractive, loud and apparently brutish in his treatment of females. But Judith had given him a son, something Kramer had craved for a long time.
    Nearby, the object of Mona’s thoughts, the theatre owner’s new young wife, was attempting to discuss the earlier performance with Marcus Sigler and Della Fortess, the show’s two leads.
    Marcus was absurdly handsome, and knew it. He had positioned himself opposite a wall mirror, and had trouble avoidingits gaze. The atmosphere between the three of them seemed uncomfortable. Mona assumed this was partly because Judith Kramer had influence over her husband and could impose upon him to get rid of anyone she disliked, and the others knew it. But she suspected it was also because Judith knew absolutely nothing about the stage apart from the shows of Andrew Lloyd Webber, whom she adored, and therefore had nothing to bring to the conversation—not that this stopped her from holding court.
    Mona studied the trio more carefully. The leading lady was staring hard into her martini. The leading man was looking at their hostess in ill-disguised pain. Had they all just had an