‘Eighty-eight,’ they both said at once, and Adrian searched the cabinet.
‘Eighty-four to eight-six… eighty-seven to eighty-eight. Got it!’ He pulled out two white boxes tied with string. ‘Here we go.’
He watched her, impressed, as she unwrapped the roll of film and set it upon the machine’s spinning spool, threading the end of the reel into the clamp and starting the slow scroll through the archived pages projected and enlarged on the screen, every page of the original editions long since disintegrated or destroyed and captured for posterity decades ago on the celluloid spool.
Mirren scrolled, searching for any mention of Wagstaff and Olivia Hathaway. Had the pair ever acted together, or even worked together in the same season of plays? Had they been photographed out on the town together at some premier or at a cast party? Had they done a press call together, or an interview? She relished hunting through the reel for evidence. This was what she was good at; finding the story, sifting through resources to get to the truth, with sharp eyes and sharper wits. The thrill of reporting was coming back to her, something that had been dulled writing up magistrates’ proceedings at theBroadsheet.
Adrian, Mirren noticed, had left the room, so she worked on, hoping she wouldn’t stumble upon any mention of Blythe and Wagstaff. She’d blurted out the mystery of Jonathan’s paternity to Adrian; she didn’t need to add details about Blythe’s potential love affair with the old rogue too. Jonathan’s story was delicate enough without adding another layer of intrigue and Blythe’s controversial pregnancy was no one’s business but her own – everyone deserved to keep their secrets, didn’t they? Her excitement ebbed a little at this.
She thought of how even the national papers would love this scoop. Famed TV and stage actor, John Wagstaff – the man who (probably) ruined Blythe Goode, sixties stage siren – reunites with his long-lost American son, also an actor reaching the height of his career and returning to the English stage for another triumphant season. She could see the salacious headlines and the clickbait sidebars already.
The thought of it was enough to make her hands fall to her lap, just as Adrian was returning with two empty mugs.
‘Let’s open that bottle, shall we?’ he said. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’
‘Are we doing the right thing? What if we find out WagstaffisJonathan’s dad? That kind of information in the wrong hands could ruin his life. If it got out and in the news there could be a scandal all over again; we could hurt his mum’s feelings, humiliate them both. Is it worth it?’
‘Whatever we discover, nobody needs to know,’ said Adrian, pulling up a chair beside her. ‘You’re looking for proof, right? If we find it, your friend can break it to her boyfriend and then it’s up to him how he proceeds. He doesn’t have to act on it, but at least he’d know.’
‘If he wanted to know he’d ask his mum.’
Adrian swallowed, setting the bottle of champagne down again, thinking hard. Eventually, he made up his mind. ‘You’re right. Nobody likes to be reminded of family secrets left buried for generations. It’s not our place to interfere. Weshouldleave it.’
‘Working late?’
They both quailed at the voice from the doorway. Adrian drew a martyred breath before he turned to face its source.
‘Mr Ferdinand? I was just showing Mirren the archives.’
‘Got a news story, have you?’ The editor peered at them, his nose raised, sniffing out an exclusive.
‘Nope, I’m just really into archives,’ Mirren said hurriedly.
‘Anything I can help you with?’ He wasn’t going to let this lie.
‘We were just leaving actually, weren’t we?’ Adrian said, surreptitiously placing the mugs on the floor where his boss wouldn’t see them.
‘Did I hear you mention Olivia Hathaway?’ Ferdinand pressed, leaning across the doorway and looking as frail and as sticky as a spider’s web.
The young reporters turned to one another, plumping their bottom lips in fake confusion. ‘Uh, nope, don’t think so,’ Adrian said, while Mirren shook her head innocently. ‘Grab those chocolates, Mirren, let’s get out of here. We’ll be off now, Mr Ferdinand.’
Mirren wound the film back onto its spool as Mr Ferdinand approached the machine. He was still talking in his nasal tones. ‘Because you know old Wagstaff got Olivia in a compromising position? She left town after that. Haven’t heard her name in years, actually.’
‘You knew them?’ Mirren blurted, giving up the pretence.
‘Everyone knew them. At least everyone in the theatre world. It was a minor scandal, I suppose, but soon forgotten. I was a handsome young lad at the time, of course. I was Brutus’ page inJulius Caesar. I got to hold the dagger, you know? On a little cushion.’
Mirren humoured him with widened eyes and an interested smile, all the while thinking it was easier to picture Ferdinand wielding a murder weapon than it was to imagine he was ever a handsome young lad. ‘Were they… in love?’ Mirren hazarded.
Mr Ferdinand pulled a face as though this were the oddest of questions, then ignored it. ‘So youweren’tresearching a story?’ Mirren saw the quick lick at his thin, parched lips like a lizard tasting the air.
‘Goodness, no. Well, it was nice to see you again, Mr Ferdinand. Merry Christmas.’ She stood up tall in front of him, allowing Adrian to slip the reels back into the cabinet, making sure to smooth the row so nobody could know which boxes they’d picked out.
Mr Ferdinand, cowed by Mirren towering so close to him and smiling with her red-lipsticked mouth, took a step backwards. She’d known he’d be intimidated by the proximity – Mr Ferdinand didn’t look the lascivious, grab-a-handful-while-you-can type – and he’d slunk out the room, calling behind him something about making sure they didn’t leave a mess.
They followed him from the archive room, hearing the microfilm reader’s fan whirr down into silence again. Mr Ferdinand was standing awkwardly in front of his office door. ‘I’m leaving now too. I was just,eh, making sure we’d locked up properly for the holiday. See you early on the twenty-eighth, Adrian.’
‘Uh, sure. Merry Christmas.’ Adrian reached for Mirren’s hand and she instinctively clasped it, making their way from the building while casting cautious glances at one another until they were on the street and out of Ferdinand’s hearing.
