So that was that. All her promises of what she could do for him, the people she could introduce him to and the opportunities she could make happen had boiled down to this. He had even married Sophy because of her. Rosalind had suggested it would effectively allay any suspicions her husband might be harbouring if he was to take a wife.
He banged his fist against the wall next to the window, making the glass rattle. But he’d get another part soon enough, he told himself, nursing his bruised knuckles. And he’d been sick of currying favour with Christopher Robins and watching his ps and qs, as well as pandering to Rosalind’s whims and fancies, in the bedroom as well as out of it. He had thought he knew it all sexually and that he had an open mind, but Rosalind had introduced him to things that had made him feel a novice in that department. But it was over. And now he had to tell Sophy he wasn’t in the new play. He hadn’t mentioned it last night, not wanting to say anything until he had seen Rosalind this morning. He supposed he had been hoping she would tell him it was all a mistake and that she had fixed things for him. Fool that he was.
He walked out of the bedroom and into the sitting room of the apartment, picking up his jacket which he has discarded on entering. He stood in the middle of the expensively furnished room, his mind assessing the quality of the furnishings and fittings. Rosalind knew some wealthy and influential people all right. He had thought he was going to have a meteoric rise to fame and fortune as her lover. She hadn’t been able to keep her hands off him when they had first got together. But he’d succeed without her. She was just a woman, after all, like any other, and all cats were grey in the dark.
‘Oh, Toby darling, I’m so sorry. Whatever are they thinking of? But it’s like Cat always says, half the time in our profession it’s not how good you are but whether the owners or the actor-managers have their own agenda and their favourites. I’ve heard of this Bruce Thorpe, I’m sure he’s a relation of Christopher Robins. A distant cousin’s child or something. But they’ll live to regret it. He won’t be a patch on you.’
Toby and Sophy were sitting eating breakfast the next morning, the windows wide open to catch any breeze the muggy August morning might afford them. He hadn’t got in until the early hours, having gone for a drink with some fellow actors after his performance at the theatre. They had ended up in one of the more disreputable establishments in Soho much the worse for wear, and he had no recollection of how he’d got home. He did remember following one of the actors to the back of the club where they’d gained admittance into a room guarded by a pair of big burly ne’er-do-wells, however. He had never tried an opium pipe before and it had knocked him for six.
He smiled blearily at Sophy. She had been distinctly frosty this morning until he’d told her about losing the part in the next play, whereupon she’d leaped to his defence.
‘I must admit I was a little put out at first,’ he said, ‘but there’s other parts in other theatres.’
‘Of course there are.’ She reached across and took one of his hands between her own. ‘And you’ll be snapped up. You’re such a wonderful actor.’
Toby looked down at his plate and tried not to shudder. He had forced down a breakfast roll and a cup of coffee, but he had a stinking headache and felt as sick as a dog. Putting his hand to his head, he muttered, ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a while. I might have overdone things a bit last night.’
‘Do that.’ Sophy was all concern. ‘I’ll wake you in plenty of time to get ready for the theatre. When – when do you finish?’
‘End of the week.’ He stood up, touching her shining hair which she always wore flowing and loosely tied with a ribbon for breakfast. ‘Thanks for being understanding.’