Reluctantly, Cherry agreed to the Lyons, although she hardly touched the tea in front of her, preferring to smoke. “It keeps you thin, you know. Not that you need that.”
Hesitantly, Freda asked how things were at the Vanbrugh. “Oh, that place,” Cherry said dismissively, “I wouldn’t know, I left ages ago.” Well, it wasn’t that long, Freda thought, it’s only a couple of weeks since I left myself. She was on the stage, Cherry said. She’d had an audition for The Co-Optimists at the Palace, “And I got the part!”
“Well done,” Freda said. The word “audition” made her flinch.
“It’s a tiny part, of course, but I’ve had a review—Ingenue sparkles and so on. What about you?”
“Me? Dancing. In a nightclub.”
“Oh, poor you. Is it terribly frightful?”
Who was this person, Freda thought? Was the real Cherry Ames—sweet and kind and perfectly normal—trapped inside this brittle imposter? Freda was about to ask her if she had heard anything about Florence, but Cherry stood up abruptly and said, “I’m awfully sorry, Freda, but I have to go,” stabbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. “I’m frantically busy. We’re rehearsing all day, they’re always adding new stuff to the show. It’s a crashing bore.”
“It must be.”
“I have to have dinner with one of the investors in the show afterwards at the Café Royal. I’m going to be exhausted.”
If you looked carefully, beneath the heavy make-up and the strained, tired eyes, the real Cherry was probably still in there trying to protect herself. Freda wondered what she’d had to do to get the part in The Co-Optimists. Although she didn’t need to wonder, she knew. “Well, lovely to catch up,” she said with a false cheerfulness.
They kissed goodbye, Cherry going in for a second cheek, continental-style—Freda had learnt that from the Sphinx. Sometimes people went in for three. Ridiculous. What was wrong with just shaking hands?
“Oh,” Cherry said, raking in her handbag, “here…” She produced two tickets that she handed to Freda. “Have these comps for the show. You can come to any performance. They’re good seats,” she added. Suddenly she looked sad and, biting her lip, said, “It really was nice to see you, Freda.” And then, turning back, “I almost forgot, someone came to the Vanbrugh looking for you and Florence.”
“Looking for us? My mother?” Unlikely somehow.
“No, not your mother. I’m not sure who she was, I don’t think she told me her name. How is Florence, by the way? Oh, golly,” she said, catching sight of a clock on the wall, “I really have to run. Catch up another time. You know where I am.” And she was gone.
Who is looking for me?, Freda wondered. Perhaps it was Mrs. Ingram, although Mrs. Ingram was surely too faint-hearted for London. Did Freda want to be found, by Mrs. Ingram? What would she say to her? I’m awfully sorry but Florence has vanished into thin air. Freda had been found by Vanda. Would anyone find Florence?
* * *
—
“Oh, there you are,” Ramsay said when Freda arrived at the Sphinx. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”
“Met a friend.”
“Let’s get on with it, then,” he said. He’d asked her to come in early today to help with something. “A plan.” He had lost an unimaginable sum （a thousand pounds!） at something called a “spieler,” which was a kind of card game, and he was terrified of the consequences. Why on earth did he play for such high stakes if he couldn’t cover his bets? What a mug.
“I think I was doped,” he said, sounding very sorry for himself. “They kept giving me champagne.”
“Did you eat anything?” Freda asked.
“I don’t know—caviar, oysters? There was a buffet.”
“Hm,” Freda said. “And then the next day had everything turned to rocks and ashes?”
“Well, metaphorically speaking.”
Freda had no idea what metaphorically was, but she got the gist.
Freda had initially thought that Ramsay had asked her to come in early so that she could show him how to play cards better, and if not better then how to cheat, giving him a chance to win the money back. （She had inadvertently confessed her skills to him one evening.） But a thousand pounds! That would be some slam for him to pull off and, let’s face it, he was not the sharpest card in the pack.
Not cards, apparently. As she was hanging up her coat he asked, “Are you any good at forgery?”