Page 90 of Last Christmas in London

The overture was ending. Emily Heston was walk-ing on to do her short introduction and to invite Pim on stage.

I could see the wings and Pim’s bouffant hair just ahead of me. I was nearly there.

‘Welcome, Pim Hardcastle!’

Oh, hell! I missed it.

Pim went on stage with a rapturous applause just as I reached the black-winged entrance. She was practically gliding, elegantly holding her navy dress up slightly at the slit so that she didn’t slip, and the guests all got an eyeful of her 1940s pin-up legs.

She waved with the other hand; her clutch already on stage at a table just behind her seat so the audience couldn’t see. At least the stage manager had sorted that for me.

‘Welcome, Pim! What an entrance!’ Emily was saying as Pim took her seat, crossing her legs and once again giving the audience an eyeful. Wolf-whistles and cheers continued as Emily opened the show with an explanation of why we were all there, to celebrate Pim and her shattering performance as the first female Heathcliff.

‘She looks amazing,’ a voice said from behind me.

‘Alison!’ I exclaimed opening my arms, and giving her a quick hug.

She was zipping up a small bag of cosmetics as we whispered.

‘We got her on in the end,’ she muttered knowingly, with a smile.

‘You helped her?’

‘I got your text about running late,’ she said, showing me Pim’s phone and my many messages updating her on my progress. Clearly Pim hadn’t been paying any attention to her phone while I was panicking trying to get to her. ‘I thought I’d step in and help out a little earlier.’

The relief was like someone had pumped me full of morphine. Every inch of my body relaxed.

‘Oh, thank you!’ I said, so heartily a stage assistant had to ssh me. ‘Thank you!’ I whispered again. She shrugged as if it was nothing, but it wasn’t nothing. ‘You’re not even on the payroll yet,’ I pointed out, guiltily.

She shrugged again. ‘It was useful to see her at her worst,’ she said, and my mind’s eye exploded with fears about what Pim had been up to and what she had said, my mind returning to the terrified-looking stylist in the dressing room.

‘Was she awful?’ I asked, placing a hand on Alison’s hand apologetically. She shook her head.

‘She was scared,’ she said. ‘Stage fright.’

I nodded. ‘She has it quite badly,’ I muttered. ‘I thought we had done the prep work for her to have a handle on it this time, though.’

Alison smiled at me. ‘You did. Yes, she snapped and cursed every now and then, but really, she knew exactly where she needed to be, who with and when. Even with me there to fetch and carry, you really set the groundwork for this event to run like clockwork.’

It was Alison’s time to pat me on the shoulder. I grabbed her hand and squeezed. It really meant a lot to see the event come together, especially after so much work and effort. The phone calls to the venues, caterers, and the staff, getting all the timings down to a T, the lighting perfect, the staging immaculate. Everything to Pim’s exacting standards, so there was nothing for her to blame in order to cut and run. It had all come together, and now I could just enjoy it.

‘What a brilliant story!’ Emily said as Pim finished an anecdote about each of her co-stars, whom she no longer spoke to because of said anecdote. Pim’s laugh chimed across the stage, and you could hear a pin drop from the audience – they were so mesmerised by her.

‘So, tell us, Pim, you were never meant to be an actress, were you?’

‘Oh no, Emily, not at all.’ She laughed again. ‘I was the daughter of a working-class couple from Lincoln. My mother was a seamstress for a tiny local theatre and my father worked as an electrician. After school, I would sit with my mother in the dressing rooms of these little-known actresses, the vaudevillians of the day, and listen to them run lines and do vocal warm-ups. You know, and all the rest. And I grew to mimic them.’

Emily grinned. ‘So you were a mimic from a young age. Seems like you were always destined for storytelling. Speaking of stories, you’ve had quite the week, haven’t you? Your name has been all over TikTok.’

A ripple of anticipation moved through the audience. Pim arched a delicate brow. ‘Oh, Emily, you make it sound as though I’ve taken up viral dancing.’

Emily tittered. ‘Not quite, but your, shall we say, spirited discussion with Michael Holland certainly had its moments.’

Pim tilted her head, exuding effortless composure. ‘Ah, yes. Well, you know how it is, Emily. A harmless conversation morphed into a news moment. I simply suggested that not everything needs to be narrated in a voice that sounds as if it’s trying to summon a ghost.’

Laughter rolled through the audience.

Pim continued, smoothing an imaginary crease in her dress, ‘But Michael Holland is just one of the many men who I’ve butted heads with, however innocently, in this industry. One of the first men…’ She began another anecdote, moving on from the moment with ease and professionalism.