‘And look, there’s your name on the front page of the paper,’ Myrtle was pointing to the wording under the largest picture of Blythe, ‘Photographs by Kelly Anderson. Oh!’
‘Kelly? Ugh, that Mr Ferdinand! That’s exactly what I’d expect of him. Can’t even get my name right.’
‘There’ll be other opportunities. You can set him straight for next time,’ Myrtle reached a hand over and tapped Kelsey’s forearm. ‘So… I can’t hold out any longer, tell me about you and Jonathan. Things going OK?’
The prosecco and the sudden shift to her favourite topic of conversation brought heat to Kelsey’s cheeks. ‘He’s lovely, thanks.’
Myrtle gave a satisfied chuckle and took a big bite of scone, leaving Kelsey to fill the silence.
‘He’s so busy with his run ofHamlet. I read some reviews online; the Canadian critics are loving him. One of them said he was the greatest Hamlet of his generation.’
She couldn’t stop her mind flitting to the now indelible image of Jonathan, hot from the evening’s spotlights and curtain calls, reclining on his hotel bed in his black Hamlet garb, his phone held aloft, his shirt strings loosened, as he unbuckled his belt, smiling slyly, biting his lower lip, his kohl-lined eyes narrowed with wicked intent.
‘Gawd, Kelsey. If he’s responsible for making you blush like that, I can tell things are going well.’
‘Yeah, things are definitely good.’
Kelsey suppressed a self-conscious grin and set to work on the cream tea again, enjoying the unexpected reminder that Stratford was still the wonderful place she’d fallen in love with and that, even though some of her favourite residents had left along with the summer crowds, there were still precious friends in town. All she had to do was make more effort to see them.
‘I’m happy you’re happy,’ Myrtle was saying, holding her glass out. ‘We’ve got this. We’re entrepreneurs. We got the knowhow, we got the guts. Let’s show these Stratfordians how it’s done!Cheers.’
By four thirty, as Myrtle kissed Kelsey goodbye, making her promise again to come to the costume shop’s grand opening, the sky had darkened with heavy-looking clouds. Her mobile hadn’t rung all afternoon, so Kelsey forced herself to sit at her desk for another still and silent half hour repeatedly checking the empty email inbox for signs of life before locking up the studio and making her way home to St.Ninian’s Close before the rain came on and soaked her bundle of newspapers.
Chapter Ten
‘Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds?
Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers?’
(Troilus & Cressida)
‘You’re looking fancy,’ Jamesey said, oiling over to Mirren now it was past five on Friday afternoon. The newsroom had cleared for the day and Mirren was alone by the photocopier. She pulled the papers in her hand close to her chest – her copy for her theatre feature. She’d worked on it in stolen moments between courts reporting all week and was almost ready to send it to Mr Angus.
It was at times like these that Jamesey liked to strike, always timing his chats for the moments the bosses were out of earshot and no one who mattered was looking. Yet he didn’t seem to mind the cleaning staff hearing him as he performed his chummy familiarity with Mirren, they probably weren’t important enough for him to worry about. In fact, she thought, he enjoyed it most when he had an audience of subordinates.
‘I lookfancy?’ echoed Mirren, looking down at her knee-length black dress and long leather boots. She’d put on her silver pendant and hoop earrings that morning too. ‘Hardly.’What does ‘fancy’ even mean?she worried.It’s unlikely to be a compliment and is nowhere near the same as saying I look nice. ‘Fancy’, coming from his lips means overdressed, try-hard, and ridiculous.The little flicker of rage Jamesey always managed to ignite within her started to burn in her chest.
‘Got a date, have you?’ he leered.
Mirren flinched, shuffling the sheets, warm from the photocopier and hers to keep until the real article appeared in the November women’s pages. She’d wanted to end her working week quietly re-reading her carefully researched piece at her desk but here was Jamesey bothering her once more. And she did have a date, as it happened, someone she’d met online, but she wasn’t telling Jamesey anything about it. She wasn’t just going to hand over ammo like that so he could smile and smack his lips at her as he enjoyed speculating on what kind of loser would use dating apps.
‘No, I’m meeting friends for cocktails, actually.’A small lie won’t matter.
He often asked her to join him and his laddish mates for a drink after work but she always declined, and she knew he wouldn’t offer to join her out on the town tonight if he thought she was meeting up with friends and not workmates.
He was always uncomfortable – and markedly silent – in new company until he had figured out the hierarchies and power dynamics, fearful of making a gaffe in front of someone who might be useful to his career or his ego – or he’d fall back on making jolly, amiable remarks, the kind that had new acquaintances wondering at the charming young man and his lovely manners and witty talk.
He saved his worst behaviour only for Mirren, so nobody would ever believe he was this way, not that she’d ever tried to tell anyone about it. Mr Angus prided himself on running a tight ship with a loyal staff and Mirren couldn’t be sure how he and the other bosses would react to complaints about Jamesey talking down to her all the time.
The arch of Jamesey’s eyebrow suggested he didn’t believe her lie. ‘What happened to that one you lived with? Peter something-or-other? Did you give him the elbow, then?’
This was said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes which, Mirren noticed, not for the first time, were glassy and small like a pig’s. It’s funny how the more you disliked someone, the more their face, their very being, took on the shape and resonance of grotesque things, Mirren reflected. Right now, she hated the way his flesh clung to his jaw, pale and mottled pink at the same time, somehow speaking of the gristly sinew beneath.
‘His name’s Preston, and we’re separated, yes. Amicably.’ This too was a lie, bigger than the first. Much bigger. Jamesey Wallace didn’t deserve even to hear Preston’s name spoken aloud, let alone to mock and jeer about their fractured, dismantled, never-to-recover love.
‘What happened there, then? Were you giving him the run around? Poor bastard.’
‘It’s nothing to do with you, is it?’ She tried not to snap but couldn’t help the terseness. ‘Right, I’m going, it’s gone five.’
