5
Winnie entered the Paragon through the doors on the Mile End Road. She crossed the crush room and saw herself reflected in the giant mirrors, flushed with heat. They’d replaced the gaslights with blistering new electroliers and put Chinese prints all over the walls. Everything was glazed and swagged with red velvet. She rather liked it. She took a breath and made straight for the auditorium, spying a door near the stage.
Mrs. King had given very clear instructions. “We need someone with a gift for deception, someone who knows all about acting.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“Who do you think?”
“You can’t be serious,” Winnie had said, knowing exactly who Mrs. King meant. “She’s entirely unpredictable.”
“She’s perfect. And you’ve known her the longest. She’ll do it if you ask her.”
Winnie had shaken her head. “Not a good idea.”
“Nonsense. I have every faith in you,” Mrs. King had said. “Off you go,” she’d added when Winnie hesitated.
Winnie hadn’t been able to tell Mrs. King why she dreaded this appointment. It had depths and dimensions even she was only just beginning to comprehend. And she’d sworn to keep them secret. So she had nodded, stoically. “Very well,” she’d said. “I’ll do my best.”
Now Winnie felt a hand on her arm. “Madam!” It was an usher, barring the way. “Have you got a ticket?”
Winnie felt his eyes assessing her shabby coat, and marched back to the lobby. She spent all the cash Mrs. King had given her on a box. Necessary expense, she told herself, trying not to look at the price.
They gave her a program for free, which was something. It was printed on silk, the color of peaches and cream. She ran her finger down the acts, searching for one name: Hephzibah Grandcourt. Couldn’t find it.
She frowned, looking out over the balcony. There were an awful lot of shopkeepers and cutlery salesmen here. The men wore tartan jackets, luridly patterned, and left their umbrellas in the aisle. Stop being a snob, she reminded herself. She looked odder than they did, a lump of coal in a jewelry box, pins falling out of her hat.
Another usher peered in. “Something from the menu?”
“Brandy,” she said, summoning her courage. She might as well have asked for a tankard of stout.
The usher gave her a wink. Winnie didn’t know if this made her feel better or worse. Her legs were shaking, she noticed. Guilt.
Then she heard the door. The creak and rustle of silk.
“Well, they’re in a wonderful flap downstairs,” said a voice over her shoulder. “Some charlady’s gone and pinched the best seats in the house.”
Winnie steeled herself, and turned around.
Her first impression was not of the person standing before her. It was of the person hidden within that person. It was just about possible, if you concentrated, to see the girl who’d once worked in the kitchen at Park Lane twenty years ago. A common house sparrow concealed inside a splendid bird of paradise. Her teeth were bared in a smile, pearls choking her neck, hair gleaming and soaring into the air. But the eyes were the same. Cornflower blue, and wide open.
“Hullo, Hephzibah,” said Winnie. She took care to use the new name. It seemed the least she could do.
Hephzibah Grandcourt’s eyes didn’t move. She was an actress, after all. She had the most extraordinary control of her face. She’d possessed that skill even when she worked at Park Lane, back in the days when her hands were yellow from the laundry soap and she always smelled of ammonia. She’d had presence then, and she had presence now, and her expression radiated anger.
“Who told you I was working down here?” she asked.
Winnie straightened. “Nobody. I guessed.”
Hephzibah gave off a powerful scent of sugared fruits and almonds, sickly sweet. “I spotted you from behind the stage, of course.” She flexed her fingers. “I simply couldn’t. Believe. My. Eyes.” She skewered Winnie with her gaze. “Did you come for my autograph?”
Winnie reminded herself to tread carefully. She had known Hephzibah half her life. And when Hephzibah left Park Lane, eighteen years before, Winnie had stayed in touch, with dogged persistence—sending humdrum letters; buying tickets to the Christmas pantomime; being entirely, perfectly, unimpeachably good to Hephzibah. It made Winnie redden with shame now, to think of her own pomposity, her own complete lack of comprehension.
In normal circumstances she and Hephzibah met at tearooms or by the river—on safe and neutral ground. But coming here, onto Hephzibah’s own territory, was a bold move. It threatened the hard-won equilibrium between them. “I wanted to talk to you,” Winnie said.
The usher brought her brandy and a glass of sherry for Hephzibah. It came on a tray with a bowl of cherries that looked as if they’d been dipped in sugar water, obscenely shiny.
“Well, here I am,” said Hephzibah.
“You’re not on the program,” Winnie said. “Aren’t you performing?”
Hephzibah skinned one of the cherries with her teeth. “I’m the understudy,” she said, without emotion.
“The what?”
“The stand-in, the spare. They still pay me for that, you know.”
The air had a sour-apple tint to it. Hephzibah’s nails didn’t stop clicking against the beading of her dress, and it pained Winnie to see her anxiety. “Perhaps I can match the fee,” she said eagerly. “I’ve got a commission for you.”
Hephzibah spit a cherry stone into the bowl. “What does that mean?”
“A job.”
“To do what?” Hephzibah’s eyes darkened.
“To—charm someone,” Winnie said, casting about for the right word. She couldn’t afford to be overheard. She wasn’t used to this sort of business at all.
“Charm someone?”
“Yes! The way only you could do it.”
The silence was dreadful. Hephzibah took another cherry, examined it. “Not all actresses are tarts, you know,” she said.
Winnie felt herself grow cold. “That’s not at all what I mean.”
Hephzibah’s eyes flashed upward. “I don’t need money that badly. I’ve got money.”
“Hephzibah…”
“I’ve got any number of jobs coming.”
Winnie sat forward in her chair. “Let me explain myself,” she said.
Hephzibah snatched the program, held it up to the lamplight. “It’s a bad night tonight. Rough acts, top to bottom. You should’ve come on a Saturday. Then you’d see some talent. Not this rubbish.”
“Hephzibah…”
“If I ran this place, it would go like a dream. I’d write the bloody plays myself. I’ve got a great talent.”
“I know.”
“A rare talent. It deserves proper cultivation.” She sent another cherry stone bouncing into the bowl. Perfect aim. “It’s pretty rich, you marching in here, out of the blue. I haven’t heard from you for months.”
Winnie opened her mouth. Closed it again. “I always write,” she said uneasily.
“And I reply!”
“Well,” said Winnie, not able to help herself, “you send me pictures of yourself.”