Mirren’s arms were piled with books and two carrier bags swung from her wrists. Only her eyes showed over the load.
‘I met your neighbour at last. Blythe? She gave me these. Said she was having a clear out and thought you’d like them. She also made me down a shot of eighty proof alcohol that tasted like hand sanitiser and hedgerow.’
‘That’s Blythe for you.’ Kelsey rescued the books and piled them on the floor, then safely packed away the exhibition photographs from the bed, keeping only Jonathan’s head shot out and placing it on top of the pile.
‘And I got us some dinner,’ Mirren was saying, emptying the carrier bags of the two portions of bangers and mash with onion gravy in their foil containers which Kenneth had given her from the kitchens, along with a shiraz to celebrate her joining the team and in honour of her first pay cheque. ‘These were on the house. Maybe my new boss isn’t so bad after all.’
Mirren set about reheating the food and pouring the drinks while Kelsey sorted through the books, fascinated.
‘Nice one, Mirr!’ She smacked her lips approvingly at the takeaway. ‘So… Blythe didn’t want any of these books?’
‘Nope. When I let myself in she was peering through the chain at her flat door; she must have been watching for someone passing. She said she knew you’d appreciate some of the Shakespeare text books, and there’s some old acting handbooks too…’
‘Ooh, perfect Christmas presents for Jonathan.’
‘I thought that, and that one’s on theatrical costume design…’
‘I could give that to Myrtle and Valeria for their shop!’
‘And she practically threw that one there out the door.’
‘What, this one?’ Kelsey held up the slim volume, reading aloud the title. ‘An Actor’s Lifeby John Wagstaff.’ The inside jacket told her it was one of a one-hundred-copy print run from a small local press, probably long since defunct. ‘I’m not surprised she didn’t want to keep this one. Seeing it must bring back bad memories for her.’
‘Hmm?’ Mirren was busy finding cutlery.
‘This guy, John Wagstaff, was mentioned in her newspaper article. He was her co-star and got so drunk before the opening night ofCleopatrahe fell off the stage and broke his legs, ruined the run for everyone, and if my instincts are right, that’s not all he ruined.’
Mirren handed Kelsey a wine glass. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ she lowered her voice as if somehow Blythe could have made it up two flights of stairs and was listening at the door. ‘Blythe had a baby and the theatre bosses didn’t like her being an unmarried mum. Eventually they pushed her out of the company, ruined her career. I reckon the daddy was this guy.’
‘Old scoundrel, let’s have a look at him.’ Mirren flicked through the illustrations while the microwave droned from the corner. The cover didn’t give much away, featuring only a drawing of the comedy and tragedy masks, but inside there were black and white pictures of the man at work. ‘Tights, codpieces, the usual stuff…’ Mirren said as she flicked. ‘Oh, hold on, there’s his face… God, he’s gorgeous! Nice one, Blythe!’
‘Pass it here,’ Kelsey took the book and studied the images, turning the pages with increasingly quick flicks. ‘That issospooky.’
Mirren began serving the steaming food onto plates. ‘What is?’
‘Look at him! He’s the double of Jonathan.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Mirren peered over. ‘That is a bit weird.’
Kelsey couldn’t push the images from her mind as she and Mirren sat together on the bed, eating quietly. Throughout the meal she kept returning to the book, flipping its foxed pages until she came across a head shot that made her stomach convulse. The heading told her it was taken in nineteen sixty-eight and that Wagstaff was pictured in his stage make-up forAntony and Cleopatra. Kelsey reached for Jonathan’s headshot and compared the two for a long while.
‘Mirren?’ Kelsey’s tone was ominous. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of Jonathan’s dad?’
‘Umm, not really… I remember you saying he doesn’t know who he is.’
‘That’s right,’ Kelsey said. ‘I mean, his mum knows, obviously, but out of respect for her and his stepdad Jonathan never wanted to know anything about him, not even his name. He said his mum tried to tell him when he was a teenager but he couldn’t stand it. You know, his mum’s story is strikingly similar to the one Blythe told me, now I think about it.’
‘Spill.’ Mirren’s lips curled over the rim of her glass and her eyes crinkled. She was enjoying this.
‘Jonathan’s really private about this kind of stuff, and Blythe probably believed she was telling me in confidence. You won’t repeat it to anyone, will you?’
‘Kelse, I’ve got nobody to tell.’
‘Well, OK. Jonathan’s mum was an actress here in town and some guy in the company got her pregnant and ditched her. She went back to Oklahoma and raised Jonathan on her own, never had a penny or a sniff of fatherly interest from whoever he was. Anyway, Blythe fell pregnant to some guy in the company too! And she said he was really handsome, like… irresistibly.’
They both turned their eyes back to the book lying open at the portrait as though the spine had been flexed there many times. It was so patently like Jonathan’s image staring back at them, even in the heavy stage make-up – though Jonathan’s features were more refined, his mouth more delicate and curving and he had the unmistakable ruddy health of an actor who spends a lot of time in LA and even more time in the gym.
