The Wardrobe Mistress Read online

  ‘I’ll find my own way.’ Tanith had recovered remarkably quickly. Perhaps she lived in the moment. She had her scarf back and nobody was glowering at her any more. All was well.

  For Vanessa, all was wrong. Alistair had left ahead of them, destination unknown. Moreover, it was still raining and Vanessa had left Doyle’s umbrella in the taxi. Her cardigan was dripping a dark tide on her skirt. Inside, she felt broken.

  She was taking her pain out on Tanith. ‘I want a word with your mother. Which direction? Pimlico? Or do you actually live just around the corner?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You phoned a Whitehall number from Hugo’s office. I was in the kitchen, I overheard. Now I’m wondering if you were calling Fern. Were you spying for her? Trying to trick Alistair into an affair?’

  ‘Oh, no, honestly, I was calling home. I admit I don’t live in Pimlico.’ At Vanessa’s look, she defended, ‘Well, I had to say I lived somewhere!’ Tanith spread her arms: what else could I have done? ‘I told Alistair to take me to Lupus Street on Thursday night, because I used to get my school shoes from a shop there. It’s closed down, and I knew the flat above would be empty.’

  ‘You duped Alistair into thinking you had no bed for the night so he’d be forced to play Sir Galahad. Did you want him to take you to his home?’ Vanessa shook her head incredulously. ‘And to think I accused him of behaving like a rat!’

  ‘That’s not my fault, is it?’

  ‘And this phantom shoe shop . . . did your mother ever work there?’

  ‘Did I say she worked in one?’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘Then I suppose it was. Only, she doesn’t.’ Tanith tipped her head sideways. ‘I wanted Alistair to be the first, you see.’

  ‘The first— oh, by God, Tanith, I hope your father tans your backside when I tell him.’

  ‘I don’t have a father.’

  ‘Mother, then. Just lead the bloody way to wherever it is you live. And don’t talk, because I may snap and wring your

  neck.’

  ‘The bloody way’ took them through St James’s Park, which they left by the barracks gate, passing the bomb-shattered Guards’ memorial. They crossed Whitehall, seat of government and many illustrious institutes, but of few private homes. Just as Vanessa was beginning to think she was being led in a deceptive dance, Tanith turned into a street of neo-classical terraced houses, and stopped in front of an imposing front door.

  A hotel? Vanessa wondered.

  Tanith mounted the steps and rapped a dolphin’s head knocker. The door was opened by an elderly man in formal tails and wing collar.

  ‘Miss Tanith, we wondered where you were.’ His eye moved to Vanessa. ‘Good afternoon, Madam.’

  Tanith shot a nervous grin back at Vanessa, before asking, ‘Is Granny all right, Tucker?’

  ‘Her Ladyship is resting in the day room.’

  ‘Better face the music. Come on, Vanessa,’ Tanith invited.

  The entrance hall was palatial, its walls studded with fine portraits. All but one seemed to be of the same woman, an Edwardian stunner in a pearl choker, her hair piled up in a voluptuous pouf. Vanessa pointed to the single male portrait, of a man in military dress uniform, shoulders draped in ermine. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  ‘King Edward the Seventh.’ Tanith led the way up sweeping stairs, pointing to a pen-and-ink sketch of a lady in a cream-coloured evening gown with a plunging décolletage. ‘That’s my Granny too. The dress came from Worth and she still has it.’

  ‘The Worth, of Paris?’

  ‘Yes, Granny went everywhere. She was a PB.’

  ‘A what?’

  But Tanith had reached the landing and was knocking at a closed door. ‘It’s me, Gran-of-my-heart. I have a friend with me. May we come in?’

  A fragile voice answered, ‘No light, you understand?’

  ‘Roger Wilco.’ Tanith led the way in, whispering, ‘Granny abhors daylight.’

  Why, then, was this called ‘the day room’ Vanessa wondered as she sent a footstool flying. Heavy blinds cast gloom on lavish clutter.

  ‘Granny, I have to put some light on.’ Tanith upped a bud of lamp flame, allowing Vanessa to make out a prone figure on an ottoman sofa, a mask over her eyes.

  ‘Where have you been?’ The voice scraped like a badly-oiled latch.

  ‘Here and there. Say hello to my chum, Vanessa.’

  ‘She may make herself known to me.’

  The butler had used ‘her Ladyship’ so Vanessa said, ‘Good afternoon, Lady Stacey.’

  ‘Lady Ververs. “Stacey” was this child’s good-for-nothing father.’ A gnarled hand pulled away the eye mask. ‘Who are you?’

  Vanessa gave her surname and explained her role at The Farren.

  ‘Back-stager,’ Lady Ververs sniffed. ‘You will have heard of me, I daresay, as a celebrated beauty. My stage name was Dido Meredith. Tanith’s mother wanted to act, but she had no talent. Ravishing but stupid. You cannot act if you’re stupid. I tell that to Tanith when she asks to go to drama school.’

  ‘Tanith isn’t stupid, Lady Ververs.’

  ‘There are no roles for thickset girls. None that I can think of. Is she good at her job?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘I’m useless,’ Tanith said, collapsing on a stool. There were many to choose from. Leather ones, plaid ones, others covered in animal skins. Vanessa wondered if Lady Ververs hosted gatherings of worshippers.

  ‘I’m going to quit The Farren,’ Tanith said. ‘Cottrill hates me. So will Alistair now. Plus Cottrill gives all the decent jobs to Peter Switt.’

  Vanessa felt caged in this over-heated room. Her head swam, having shared a portion of Fern’s shock and distress. But she took a moment to reprove Tanith. ‘He is “Mr Cottrill” and merits your respect. However, that doesn’t give him the right to steamroll you. Walk in on Monday with your head high and stop running away.’ She dropped her voice. ‘And stop running after Alistair.’

  ‘But he’s blissikins.’

  ‘Deluding yourself over a man nearly twice your age embarrasses him and makes you look an ass. Look where it’s got you.’

  ‘I thought he liked me. That night, I really hoped . . . you know.’

  ‘But he didn’t, and he won’t. I presume your mother never gave you a pep talk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come to my room early on Monday and I’ll give you one of mine.’ Vanessa stood up. ‘Goodbye, Lady Ververs.’

  ‘Are you still here?’ her Ladyship enquired with genuine surprise.

  On the stairs Vanessa met the butler bearing a silver salver with a port decanter and three tiny glasses. ‘May I?’ She knocked a measure back in one. It hit the spot. ‘Where is Tanith’s mother?’

  ‘Dead, Madam,’ the butler answered. ‘Her father too, though he was only ever a technicality.’

  ‘Are you aware that Tanith pretends to live above a shoe shop in Pimlico, run by said mother?’

  The butler cleared his throat. ‘It was easier to keep Miss Tanith in check when there was a full staff here, and she was small enough to send up to bed when she was silly.’

  ‘She’s no child any more, Mr Tucker. She’s heading for trouble.’ Something dawned. ‘Was it you she telephoned the other night, asking permission to go out?’

  The butler nodded. ‘Were you the older lady of the party?’

  ‘I was. If you have any influence, get her to come to work looking neat and professional. Make her throw away –’ Vanessa stopped, for the first time noticing the full-length portrait that dominated the stair gallery. It was of a young Lady Ververs, wearing a pearl coronet and a purple velvet evening dress. Cinching a minuscule waist, the gown formed a heart-shaped bodice. Throat, shoulders and arms were bare but for strings of pearls. Gliding into a ballroom dressed so, young Lady Ververs must have struck the place silent.

  ‘You were saying, Madam? Throw away?’

  ‘That awful siren suit. M
r Tucker, might I bring a designer to see that picture?’

  ‘Male or female designer?’

  ‘He’s called Hugo Brennan.’

  ‘I’m sure her Ladyship would be delighted. She likes gentlemen and so few visit nowadays.’

  Vanessa brought Hugo over that same evening. At the sight of the butler, he muttered, ‘If Harnett needs a night off, we know where to come.’ James Harnett was the veteran playing the Windermeres’ butler, Parker.

  When Tanith scampered down to greet them, Hugo said, ‘You never mentioned living in splendour.’

  ‘Because people laugh, or try to borrow money.’

  ‘I’ll try not to do either, Tanny-darling.’

  The stairs with their filigree balustrades and carved newels seduced Hugo and it took half an hour to get him to the top. As Tanith knocked at the day room, he appraised the painting that had enthralled Vanessa. He pulled a face. ‘It’s after the Singer Sargent Portrait of Madame X but without the impact. I hope the lady’s port is a decent vintage so it’s not entirely a wasted evening.’

  He was polite to Lady Ververs, chuckling when she flirted like a Victorian belle, but he only really livened up when Tucker came in with a tray.

  Chapter 16

  September’s last Monday dawned damp and grey, but this time Vanessa got to The Farren refreshed from a good night’s sleep. The woman in the room above had gone out the previous evening. If she’d brought anyone home with her, she’d done it silently.

  At the stage door, Doyle handed her a tissue-wrapped box. ‘Arrived by errand boy.’ Vanessa ripped into it as she went upstairs. It was a Chanel gift box. From Alistair?

  A note fell out.

  ‘Darling Vanessa, you reminded me how much you love No 5 and I’d forgotten I had this.’

  No, you hadn’t, Fern, was Vanessa’s instant response. The packaging was brand new. It smelled of Paris.

  The note continued:

  ‘When I came to see you at the theatre on Saturday, I was dreadfully upset, but later I admitted to myself that if Alistair were to take up with anyone, I’d like it to be you. As for that poor, silly girl with the outlandish name, I’m ashamed of imagining for an instant that she and Alistair might have – oh dear, what word can one use? Fill in whatever feels comfortable. All I can think of now is Alistair’s determination to hold me to a prison sentence. You promised you would help. Please don’t abandon me. Now that I seem likely to lose your friendship, I value it all the more. F.’

  Vanessa put the gift box in her cupboard. She should respond right away, before her desires clouded her judgement. Shedding her coat and changing into canvas shoes and a warm, knitted gilet, she worked out how much time she had. The blocking rehearsal would begin mid-morning, when she’d again stand in as Lady Agatha Carlise. Then there was the later meeting when Hugo was supposed to present his designs to Aubrey Hinshaw. Vanessa had seen little evidence that Hugo had begun work. Leaving Lady Ververs’ Saturday evening, he’d brushed off Vanessa’s pestering.

  ‘Nessie-darling, I’m empty. I’m going home to sleep. I have all day tomorrow.’

  She scribbled a few words for Tanith – who might or might not take up her invitation to a pep talk – ‘Get the kettle on, I’ve gone to make a phone call.’

  She could have walked to Bow Street and used the public box, but Alistair’s office was closer. She’d ask for five minutes’ privacy. She could hardly phone his wife with him listening.

  He was poring over papers, a pencil loose in his fingers. He laid it down when he saw her in the doorway.

  ‘You mean, can I vanish and leave you to it?’ Alistair said in answer to her request. He looked drawn and when Macduff lumbered over to her, she leaned down to stroke him to avoid seeing too much.

  ‘I’ll be quick.’

  ‘Take your time. I owe you, for dealing with Tanith on Saturday.’ Evidently, there was to be no post-mortem on the scenes at Ledbury Terrace. He took a dog lead off the bookcase. ‘I’ll take this fellow around the block. Quarter of an hour enough?’

  ‘Plenty. Have you heard from Hugo?’

  ‘I telephoned him yesterday and ordered him to be here at nine to show me what he’s got. I don’t want horrible surprises with Aubrey Hinshaw looking on. If he’s not here by half past, I’m fetching him in a taxi.’ Alistair scooped his keys off the desk. She heard them rattling as he went down the corridor.

  Vanessa dialled and requested a now-familiar number.

  Fern answered after a dozen or so rings. She sounded as fatigued as Alistair had looked. ‘Vanessa? Only you would sound so beastly-bright at this hour.’

  ‘That perfume, it’s too much. I’m sending it back.’

  ‘What a bore. Darrell said you might.’

  ‘He’s there? He spent the night?’

  ‘No, actually. He went to his flat after you all went. I was left alone to cry the rest of the weekend. You realise that my life has collapsed?’

  ‘Look, Fern, you’re painted into a corner. You have to give your marriage a second go.’

  ‘You don’t know what it is to be trapped. You were released from your ghastly marriage without having to try.’ Fern must have realised that she’d gone too far. ‘Look, I’m not myself. There’s something I need to tell you.’ She began speaking very fast. ‘I have to marry Darrell. I’m too far in to bail out.’

  ‘You’re pregnant?’

  ‘No, a different kind of trouble. Darrell won’t put an engagement ring on my finger until Alistair has formally agreed to a divorce.’

  ‘Alistair has agreed. If you take the blame.’

  ‘I might as well tar and feather my own head! You’ve no idea what it would mean to somebody of my class and position to be painted as an adulteress. The Highstokes would shun me. Darrell and I love each other, but I have to go to him without a stain.’

  Vanessa was tempted to say, ‘You should have thought of that before.’ It seemed to her that reconciliation with Alistair was the only rational course for Fern – but she’d said it once and would not do so again. ‘Perhaps there is another way. Live apart, let Alistair divorce you in three years’ time for desertion. That way, there’s no charge of adultery.’

  There was a silence in which the telephone line made mysterious clicking sounds, a mechanical count-down to Fern’s grit-teethed avowal, ‘I cannot wait three years. Get him to see it.’

  ‘You imagine I have influence with Alistair?’

  ‘You do! He admires you.’ At Vanessa’s sceptical grunt, Fern grew insistent. ‘You’re a former WAAF, a war-hero’s widow. It makes up for being small and mousy.’

  ‘He calls me small and mousy?’

  ‘When I told him how your father ditched you and your mother and left for the theatre, he said, “Then more honour to Vanessa for coming through so level-headed.” “Level-headed” is the greatest compliment Alistair can bestow. When I told him how Quinnell – your father, I mean – put acting ahead of a secure job, his family and his reputation, do you know what he said? Vanessa? Are you there?’

  Vanessa had stopped breathing. ‘I – I’m sorry. I have to go.’

  She hung up, paced around the office until Alistair walked in.

  Her voice touched the edge of hysteria. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ He unclipped Macduff’s lead.

  ‘I know you probably already know – ’

  He interrupted, saying, ‘You look pale, so either your telephone call turned personal, or it’s family matters.’

  ‘Family. My father. I need to tell you – ’

  ‘Skip the monologue. You’re the daughter of Clive Quinnell, stage name Johnny, who came here in summer 1926 in pursuit of theatrical glory. Yes?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Alistair gave his godfather’s portrait a thoughtful glance. ‘Bo would never have induced a man away from his family. Quinnell had several shots at being an actor, and each time, he started well, but he couldn’t sustain being in an up-and-down profession.
Last time I met Johnny, he was playing Sir Lucius O’Trigger in The Rivals. He was good, but so are many others. Why are you crying?’

  She wiped her eyes roughly. ‘Dad was Eva St Clair’s lover and forsook her in her direst need. I am learning to hate him.’

  ‘Too harsh.’

  ‘You didn’t know him!’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? I spent every school holiday here from the age of ten. My father worked for a shipping line as its travelling promotions executive, and my mother would accompany him. I was sent to Dartmouth Naval College at thirteen.’ He explained that as the family home had been in Kelso, a town in the northernmost county of England, it had been natural for him to spend his vacations in London, a mere three hours’ train ride from Dartmouth. ‘The Farren became my second mother.’ He told Vanessa to open the middle drawer of his desk. ‘You’ll find a peach-coloured card.’

  She located it and handed it to him.

  Alistair read what was typed on it. ‘“Quinnell, C J. Re-joined the company June 1926. Promising comic, fastest actor off the book I have ever met.” Miss Bovary is saying here that he learned his lines quickly.’

  ‘I bet he did. Mum sometimes said – never mind. Go on.’

  ‘“Good impressions misleading. Sacked November 1927, cause of dismissal: upsetting backstage staff, distracting the wardrobe mistress in her work. Repeated attempts to borrow money from fellow actors”.’

  Vanessa stared down at the desk. ‘When I met Dad on Drury Lane, I didn’t realise who I was speaking to. As a child, I thought him as tall as an oak tree but he was ordinary height. It threw me.’

  Alistair smiled. ‘Actors aren’t lumberjacks, they don’t have to be tall. It’s obvious from this report that Miss Bovary disliked Johnny, yet Bo kept re-instating him in the company. At the time of his death, Johnny was playing Canon Chasuble in The Importance. His last play. The last for both of them.’

  She knew that, having seen the playbill. ‘A good part, considering.’

  ‘There are no bad parts in Wilde’s repertoire. Now I sound like Terence Rolf.’