There was a loud crack when Richard set down the tankard of coloured water he was holding. His eyes were glinting as he watched them. Usually, he played his part in this scene with amused boredom: the malevolent aristocrat who viewed the lower-class Julietta as a negligible speck on his horizon, a gullible bug to be crushed beneath his boot. It was not, Lainie had always thought, much of a stretch for his acting abilities. She was fairly sure he had considered her a sort of human prop in the past. An irritating prop that walked and talked, had deplorable taste in men, and wouldn’t stay where it was put.
Richard, as Bandero, said something snide; Will retaliated, and Richard suddenly grabbed him by the throat. They were nose to nose, and the atmosphere had nothing to do with pretence. Lainie thankfully seized upon her cue and darted from the stage, crossing her fingers and uttering a silent prayer that they made it through to the curtain with no incidents. One thing to be thankful for: Alexander Bennett wasn’t in the house tonight, so they wouldn’t be hauled over the carpet tomorrow morning for unprofessional behaviour.
Her throat was scratchy, and she went to beg another over-the-counter remedy from Meghan.
Her dresser frowned and touched a palm to her forehead. “You do look a bit flushed. How bad do you feel?”
“Bit achy.” Lainie looked at the bottles of cough syrup Meghan held in each hand and chose the children’s version with the picture of the giraffe on the box. Artificial cherry flavouring was one of her secret vices. “I hope I’m not coming down with something.”
“After what I’ve been hearing about you and Troy, I suspect a brainstorm at the very least.”
“Yes, well, there’s a story there. I’ll fill you in at some point.” Lainie swallowed a dose of medicine. “Don’t worry. I haven’t lost my mind just yet.”
Haven’t you?
She ignored that traitorous little voice within and put a hand to her temple. She couldn’t wait to get home to bed. She was starting to feel nauseous and the memory of the blueberry pancakes was coming back to haunt her.
“I’m not sure we can say the same for your menfolk,” Meghan said. They could hear the raised voices from the stage as Will and Richard warmed up to their altercation. “I was actually kidding when I wished they would make more judicious use of their swords.”
Lainie was plucking restlessly at the fastenings of her gown, and Meghan pushed her fingers away and loosened them for her. “Careful. You can’t have them too loose or the show is going to go unexpectedly burlesque. You have too much up top to run around unsupported.” She retied the ribbons. “And your feminine charms are obviously potent enough. Ten quid says one of them ends up a barbecue skewer yet.”
The callboy signalled to Lainie before she could retort. With a muffled growl, she shimmied her skirts back into place and returned to the wings to await her cue. Only a couple more pages of dialogue to get through. Then she could take Chloe’s dagger through the neck and drowse in her dressing room until the curtain call.
She was pallid and shaky by the time she performed her final scene. Her onstage death had never been more convincing. Richard caught her arm as she wobbled past him in the wings. He frowned down at her, the movement cutting a line through his heavy makeup. He was quite revolting in full costume. Dissipated wasn’t the word for it. He looked as if he’d spent the past thirty years draining the contents of a distillery and neglecting to wash his hair.
“Are you all right?” he asked sharply. He put a large, cool hand to her forehead. She wished people would stop doing that. Her swipe at his fingers was feeble, and he looked even more concerned. “You look shocking.”
“Look who’s talking. You’re probably single-handedly keeping the hair-oil industry solvent with this production.”
“Go and lie down. Before you fall down.”
Meghan was waiting to help her remove the bloodstained items of clothing before she had to reappear on the stage, and he spoke brusquely to her. “Get the medic to have a look at her.”
“I don’t need a doctor! I’m fine.”
Her traitorous body succumbed to a coughing fit, and he raised his eyes to the heavens. “Medic,” he repeated to Meghan. “Now.”
The callboy gestured urgently for Richard’s cue, and he returned to the stage with a reluctant glance back at her.
“You heard the man,” Meghan said. “Get off your feet and I’ll find someone to stick a thermometer in your ear.”
Lainie glared at her. “Since when do you listen to the greasy dictator out there?” She stamped off toward her dressing room, aware she was being a total pill.
Her mood was not improved by the doctor, who had latent comedy ambitions and kept up a running stream of jokes about treating the walking dead. She, like the proverbial Queen Vic, was not amused. By the time Meghan half carried her back to the stage for the curtain call, she was drowsy and feeling strangely detached from her legs. She walked forward when nudged, and listened, as if from a distance, to the rolling thunder of applause. Will’s hand was slippery with sweat, and she kept dropping his fingers.
“What’s wrong with you?” he hissed close to her ear as they took the full cast bow. She wavered, and he made a grab for her. “Jesus! Stand up!”
Lainie turned a look of dignified reproach on him. “I’m fine,” she said, very clearly.
And then she passed out on a West End stage in front of two thousand people.